Losing my Dad

 

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There is something that I’ve been trying to hide that I don’t want to hide anymore. I’ve been sad. I’ve been so unbelievably sad. There’s been a gnawing hole in me every day. Losing my dad is the hardest thing I’ve ever been through since I was in my early twenties and a different kind of tragedy occurred. The difference is, I can’t disappear from the world, or drink it away, or hook up with randoms to numb the pain. I’m an adult now. I have to pay bills. I run a theatre company. People are depending on me.

While I received so much support after losing my father, grief doesn’t go away in six months. It doesn’t feel as vast now. It’s pointed. It’s honed. It attacks me with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel when it hits. The last six months are a a blur. I don’t like rain as much anymore. I don’t enjoy singing like I used to. I stopped wearing makeup. I don’t cry at sad movies. I haven’t listened to Hamilton since he died.

I was frozen to whatever spot I was in, sometimes for hours. It was hard to get out of bed…out of my house…out of my car. I spent a lot of time sitting; paralyzed, willing myself to move, knowing that I had responsibilities. Sometimes it was a triumph that I checked the mail or washed my hair or did the dishes. I was barely holding down a job. You can’t call in “sad” so you go to work and you try not to fall apart.

You try not to let on to others that you are not well, but they can tell. You break down in a client’s closet because it’s filled with men’s dress shirts. You go into a grocery store to pick up a couple things and leave 45 minutes later in tears because you couldn’t decide what you wanted…because you want nothing.

On the good days you forget to cry. You forget you ever had a father and laugh and sometimes you even feel good. And then you feel guilty. You feel so guilty. If you don’t cry for a few days you feel so guilty.

My father and I didn’t have the best relationship at the end. He was a very difficult man and he put me through a lot and towards the end I was keeping him at an arm’s length. I was worried that if I let him in, he would see how angry I was with him and I didn’t want to hurt him. And by “not hurting him” I hurt him so much more.

When I started blogging about body shaming and misogyny and lack of diversity in the theatre world my dad reached out to me with this.

Getting combative and going rouge is going to put somewhat of an ending to your efforts to make it big in the theatre. You are going to be viewed as a rabble rouser by many. I am not worried about you. You have to live your life as you see fit. But you aren’t going to change a thing. The theatre business is what it is. The people that you really want to listen to you won’t. And it’s a shame. But go ahead and try if you are feeling it this strong. We have your back and always will.

It hurt me so much. I never responded. I was furious. Now that I re-read it, I see the part that I missed. “We have your back and always will.” I wish that I had HEARD that. Because of this email, I didn’t want to share my new theatre company that I was launching with him. He’d ask me how it was going and I’d just say, “fine,” not wanting to share that part of my life.

He knew I was depressed after getting off the national tour of Sister Act. He knew I felt like my theatre community had forgotten me. I couldn’t even get a callback at The Marriott for Sister Act, the very same show I had just done for a year. The same doors that had always been closed to me hadn’t budged an inch. I was bitter and sad and angry.

I could never hide what I was feeling from my father so I would avoid him. I didn’t want him to know. I shut him out. I turned off all emotion when he would try to talk to me. I turned cold. He was trying to connect with me. He knew he was nearing the end, even if I didn’t.  I was so pissed at everything he’d put me through in the last 5 years that I refused. I have to live with that. I have to live with the fact that he died suddenly and  alone. I have to live with the fear that he died feeling unloved. Our last conversation was a battle over Trump and Hillary. We raged at each other, but calmed down at the end. The one thing I hold onto for dear life is that my last words to him were “I love you daddy.”

I was in rehearsal when I found out. I looked down at my phone. My mother and brothers were trying to get ahold of me. I saw the words “he couldn’t keep anything down…he died…” I threw the phone on the floor. I knew it was my dad even though my grandpa is ninety-six. I remember someone asked me what was wrong. I remember them hugging me. I think I cried? I remember going to the bathroom and sitting on the floor. I talked to my mom. I called Eric. He told me to come home. I tried to return to rehearsal but they had me go home after giving me a hug parade. I called Danni on the drive home. I called Kate to tell her I didn’t think I could work the next day.

I went to Virginia. I dealt with my one brother raging, my mother deflecting, my other brother trying to have a stiff upper lip. I watched my tough brothers sob while they gave their eulogies for my father and I sang for him without a tear or a catch in my throat. I saw my brother eye me suspiciously, like I wasn’t having a strong enough reaction. I held my other brother’s hand like it was a lifeline, turning purple from the tension, while he sobbed next to me as I sat there blank and numb.

At my mom’s house, we laughed, we reminisced, my brothers picked me up and tossed me back and forth like I was a rag doll. We cooked and did jigsaw puzzles. There was life in that house for the first time in a long time. But when I was alone I broke down. I chewed xanax like candy.

I came home and opened a show a day later, and launched a theatre company, and produced a benefit, and opened another show, and produced another benefit, and opened another show, and produced another benefit…and now I’m getting ready to open another show. I’m in pre-production for two more benefits. I’m in pre-production for my theatre company’s first season. It’s only been six months. And I’m trying to hold it all together. And I am succeeding, but I haven’t taken care of myself in a long time.

I have to start forgiving myself. I have to forgive myself for not forgiving my dad before he died. Sigh. It’s complicated. I forgive him now. And I know he would forgive me. He always did.

I also have to forgive myself for not having it together this past 6 months. I know I’ve let some of you down. I know I’ve said I would do some things and then didn’t do them. I’ve quit jobs, missed callbacks, skipped appointments, not got back to people. And I am sorry, but I also forgive myself. I’ve been barely functioning living a high-functioning life. And it’s been hard. And I have to give myself a break.

I don’t regret having an imperfect relationship with my father. What makes me sad is that I didn’t have more time to be imperfect. More cold stares, and rash outbreaks, and difficult talks, and messy holidays, and hugs, and long talks, and movies with him, and exploring the world. More of all of it. I don’t wish it hadn’t been messy. We fought and struggled so much because we loved each other. Because we wanted to get through to each other. We wanted to understand each other. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. I treasure every complicated and unpleasant moment with him because I still spent it with HIM. I would love to have a fight with him right now. Or a hug. Or both.

The main thing you realize when you are going through deep grief is that you are not the first person to feel this way. Almost everyone you know has lost someone. We are all suffering, sometimes silently sometimes not. It’s a shocking revelation. It doesn’t make sense. It feels so insurmountable that surely no one else is feeling this too. But they are. And everyone grieves differently. There is no rulebook. The 12 steps of grief is bullshit. There are no steps. There is no method. You just get through it as best you can and put one foot in front of the other. And love the life you’re given for as long as you’re given it. And that’s all.

I will love and miss my dad forever. And it’s heartbreaking, but oddly comforting that this feeling will never go away. I wouldn’t want it to. I want it to still hurt when I’m 80. The pain feels good because it means there was love. And no one can take that away from me.

 

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