168 Grief and Loss Across the Lifespan
would say nice things and comment on how we looked alike, but would never
share stories or thoughts about him. Never shared what made him him. It was
a failed endeavor and one that illuminated how in my patchwork of manhood,
my father was not in it. If anything, I was afraid that the genes he passed on to
me would eventually destroy me.
This period was really hard for me. During this time, I started worrying
that I would be like him and have a mental health breakdown and take my
own life. Though I knew I would never do that, I doubted my father spent
English class paranoid he was going to take his life a decade later. Ultimately,
this was the period in which it really hit me that my father not only killed him-
self, but he chose death over life. He chose nothingness over me. I remember
the deep currents of sadness, which now I can see were around my feelings of
loss and of being abandoned. I did not feel worthy or valid in his eyes, even
with my mom’s exceptional love and support. That began to take its toll on
me. It is something I still work through and probably always will.
As time marched on, my body changed and innocent playground
flirtations expanded into my first series of romances, and not-so-innocent
playground tussles became arenas for holding one’s ground and “being a
man.” These were times when my mother, though exceptional, could not help
like a father could and should. I craved a solid man in my life who had lived
and walked the same high and low roads of life. One who had wisdom and
experience and was a constant force in my life—there with me, in my corner,
supporting me along my own journey.
Sadly, that was not the case, nor would it ever be. That is the harsh truth
all of us come to soak-in when we lose a parent, let alone a parent to suicide:
Though part of them created us and enabled our physical life, they are not
there for us and they will not be there. Sometimes it would hit me often and
with sharp, painful blows. Sometimes I would go months without thinking of
my father or craving the unattainable.
As I reflect now, typing on the anniversary of his death, there have been
two main chapters of my life after my father died: avoiding and embracing.
The first part has been the bulk of my life when I worked hard to avoid the
topic of my father’s death and any pain and suffering associated with it. If it
came up, I did the verbal aikido to divert questions and conversation away
from my father, the little I knew of him, and certainly, about how I felt about
his death. The driving force for this was a mix of the shame and embarrass-
ment around having a father who could not deal with life. I pictured him as
someone who I felt was weak and surely not someone I wanted to identify
with or talk about.
Part of it was also developed after years of having to hold another per-
son’s emotions when they would ask about my father and I would eventu-
ally—often after prodding—tell them. Upon hearing of his suicide, they
would have the compulsory, “I’m sorry” and usually have a shocked, deer-
in-the-headlights look on their face. Worse, they would probe with questions
of “how did he do it?” and “did he die right away?” With hindsight, I realize
how I turned to facilitating and managing conversations, taking the lead to
ensure we would not visit topics I was not comfortable with. Other tactics
I found helpful were developing my ability to tell engaging stories, particu-
larly after the topic of my father’s death would come up. I would use this skill