The title says it all. My dad <Mod edit:Methods> himself on Monday. Yesterday, my mom texted me to come home as soon as possible. Wouldn't tell me what was wrong on the phone, just that my sisters were safe, my grandparents, too. So I went home today. I listened to Preacher's Daughter on the way, which seems a little macabre today because I really like Hard Times and that's about Ethel's dad dying. (sorry if I'm rambling and formating this badly)
I came through the door and my mom met me in the hallway, put her hands on my shoulders and told me. My dad shot himself. Possibly on Monday, but they only found him yesterday, Thursday.
My dad was difficult. My mom forced him to move out in 2021 when I was 14 because his verbal abuse had ramped up so much she was scared to have him and the hunting riffles in the same house. That was after I'd been hospitalized for a suicide attempt. I think to give you a clear picture of my relationship to my dad I just have to tell you that he never once spoke to me about my attempt. But I do remember how it felt to put my head on his belly while watching TV.
My dad was an alcoholic. High functioning, I guess, because I could never really tell when he was drunk or not, but the empty bottles of vodka and beer still piled up. He had a history of burnout and depression, too, I think, I'm not too sure on the depression part. He lived alone, but kept in contact with my mom, calling occasionally. He'd take care of our two cats if my sisters, mom and me went on vacation. I was always a bit scared he'd hurt them in a rage, though.
It doesn't feel real at all. I haven't cried. I feel a little like crying right now, but it's not this open wound in my chest that I've heard others talk about. He was dead for half a week and I didn't even know it.
Tomorrow we'll go see about funeral arrangements. I'm trying my best to support my mom and my sisters. They're crying more than me. It's just like when my grandpa (my dad's father) died. I remember holding my dad's hand at the funeral. I was ten, it was the first time someone I knew had died. I hadn't really cried about my grandpa, either. It also felt unreal. But I did feel sad for my dad. He seemed so unsure then, vulnerable almost. I held his hand because my mom told me to, to give him a little strength.
My mom is destroyed. She tells me she's more angry at my dad than grieving right now, but I know that part will come in time. She told me she wonders what she did wrong in her past life to deserve all of this. I don't know. She told me she never wants to have police on her doorstep again. I know I can't be selfish after that. Somehow, I have to hold on.
My dad is dead. I feel a little like a monster for not feeling it more deeply. But I'm not. Because it doesn't feel real yet. Or maybe, because he's been out of my life for so long, it doesn't even really matter, which is a horrible thought.
My dad is dead. I wonder, did he think about me? He didn't leave a note, so I don't know.
I came through the door and my mom met me in the hallway, put her hands on my shoulders and told me. My dad shot himself. Possibly on Monday, but they only found him yesterday, Thursday.
My dad was difficult. My mom forced him to move out in 2021 when I was 14 because his verbal abuse had ramped up so much she was scared to have him and the hunting riffles in the same house. That was after I'd been hospitalized for a suicide attempt. I think to give you a clear picture of my relationship to my dad I just have to tell you that he never once spoke to me about my attempt. But I do remember how it felt to put my head on his belly while watching TV.
My dad was an alcoholic. High functioning, I guess, because I could never really tell when he was drunk or not, but the empty bottles of vodka and beer still piled up. He had a history of burnout and depression, too, I think, I'm not too sure on the depression part. He lived alone, but kept in contact with my mom, calling occasionally. He'd take care of our two cats if my sisters, mom and me went on vacation. I was always a bit scared he'd hurt them in a rage, though.
It doesn't feel real at all. I haven't cried. I feel a little like crying right now, but it's not this open wound in my chest that I've heard others talk about. He was dead for half a week and I didn't even know it.
Tomorrow we'll go see about funeral arrangements. I'm trying my best to support my mom and my sisters. They're crying more than me. It's just like when my grandpa (my dad's father) died. I remember holding my dad's hand at the funeral. I was ten, it was the first time someone I knew had died. I hadn't really cried about my grandpa, either. It also felt unreal. But I did feel sad for my dad. He seemed so unsure then, vulnerable almost. I held his hand because my mom told me to, to give him a little strength.
My mom is destroyed. She tells me she's more angry at my dad than grieving right now, but I know that part will come in time. She told me she wonders what she did wrong in her past life to deserve all of this. I don't know. She told me she never wants to have police on her doorstep again. I know I can't be selfish after that. Somehow, I have to hold on.
My dad is dead. I feel a little like a monster for not feeling it more deeply. But I'm not. Because it doesn't feel real yet. Or maybe, because he's been out of my life for so long, it doesn't even really matter, which is a horrible thought.
My dad is dead. I wonder, did he think about me? He didn't leave a note, so I don't know.
Last edited by a moderator:
