| prospect: an anthology of creative nonfiction, Fall 2004 |
Dear Daddy |
| by Tamsen Conner, '06 |
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Dear Daddy, I am really not quite sure where to begin. Over the past eight years I have thought of a million things I'd like to say to you, but due to the finality of death, I had to let them slip from my mind. Now that I am finally writing to you, I find myself tongue tied and timid, like when I was little and we went to Disney world and I finally got to meet Mickey Mouse. Remember? I was so excited all day long waiting, to go to meet him, chattering on and on, but when the big moment came, I became shy, hiding half behind you, bashful of Mickey. Now I find it is with you, who used to keep me safe, that I'm shy. Maybe some explanation of the past eight years is in order. I finished up Middle School in Lenox and went to High School there too. I enjoyed it for the most part, at least looking back now. Some of it, though, was absolute hell. I know you've never experienced being a teenage girl, but let me tell you, moving during seventh grade was horrible. It was especially dismal considering the circumstances under which I came to Lenox. Your death was hard enough to bear, but leaving Auburn, my home, my base, immediately thereafter made it almost unbearable. All the kids I had developed good friendships with, who could support me through this time: gone. Not only did I have no friends for support, I did not have anyone at Lenox whom I felt I could trust. Your death was such a violation of trust it made me scared to trust anyone again. So, I kept quiet, kept my head down, tried to draw as little attention as I could to myself, which is hard while being "the new girl" at a very small school. After a time, though, people just got bored with me and I was left to my own devices. However, since it is nearly impossible for a 13-year-old girl to survive without friends, I made friends; it was just a slow process. It still was hard with the friends I made. Trusting them was tough, progress was slow. One of the first nights that I went out with a new friend, Fallyn, her mom was driving us back from the mall and she was making small talk. When the inevitable question, "What does you dad do for a living?" came up, I panicked. A quick calculation took place in my head, lie, tell the truth, lie, tell the truth. I chose to lie. "Oh, he works as a engineer over in England." An engineer. That's what you had gone back to school to become so it couldn't be that far from the truth and putting you in England ensured that I would not have to worry about people asking why my father never came to visit, the Atlantic Ocean being much too wide to cross. Also, this saved me from the horrible question that usually follows my admittance that you are dead. "How did he die?" That leads to another quick calculation to lie or to tell the truth. And do you want to know why I feel the need to lie? Because I'm ashamed, I'm embarrassed, I feel as though your death so far removed me from any possibility of being considered normal (whatever that means) that I don't want to admit the truth, show my weakness, I don't want people to see how hard I've been acting. Also there always arises that awkwardness from it. It's shocking, it moves people away from their comfort zone. Most people cannot imagine being 12 years old and having your father kill himself. It is beyond their perception and so of course, they don't know what to do with me anymore. Part of me, the angry part, wonders why I should even bother telling you this. Why would you care? Obviously, you did not care enough about me to keep living. Maybe this seems selfish, that caring for me is more important than eliminating your pain. However, that's what parents do. They care for their children. When you and mom divorced, you took the majority of the custody. You took on that responsibility. That doesn't mean leaving when things get too hard. I know you were in pain, physically and mentally. But when I was born you made a commitment to me for 18 years barring accidents or fatal diseases. You made me promises that though it felt like my mom was leaving me when the divorce settlement was reached, you never would leave. Remember, "I'll stand by you?" It took me years to be able to listen to that song without crying.
I'll stand by you, I'll stand by you, won't let nobody hurt you,
Do you remember those lyrics, do you remember that night? Obviously, you didn't mean it, since you were the person who hurt me the most. I think though the worst part is how you left it. You did not care enough to leave a note, or even leave my last conversation with you a pleasant one. You got mad. You hung up. No goodbye, no I love you. Just a click, then silence, and then a dial tone. And you were gone from my life. Since my mom was heading back up to New York in a few days, we tried so hard to get in touch with you. Nothing. What would have happened if she had left for New York without trying to talk to you? Then what? I guess that probably does not matter either. The day I found out was a Monday. I got called out of last period band at the beginning of class. I walked slowly to my locker and gathered some books. It all seems like a dream now, I do not experience this memory, I am always just watching this girl, whose life is so different. My mom was in the office, her eyes red from crying, she quickly led me out. Going down the steps of Auburn junior high, I looked at her anxiously. "What's up? What's going on?" "Your dad's dead." I managed to walk to the car and sit down before this seemingly endless sorrow hit me. We drove back to the place we were staying, about a two minute drive. However, as we pulled in, the grief literally made me too weak to carry my backpack. Weeping for hours, it just seemed so impossible. I sat on the campus with a friend and could not believe that you were not going to come walking towards us at any minute. That it was a mistake, that it was not true. I grasped at the more far-fetched ideas that would make you alive again. Nothing would. I could not eat that night. The pizza and crazy bread, which was always my favorite, tasted like cardboard. This grief for you was of course compounded by the fact that I had been planning to live with you in Auburn. Now you were dead. I would have to leave Auburn. I would have to leave everything I knew. I don't know if you ever felt the cliché about having the world crashing down on you. I have, and it's because of you. I don't mean to be so angry. I guess it's still there inside of me. Afterwards, I worked so hard not to hate you. Not to let my memories of you become corrupted with images of pain and loss. I wanted to remember you as you were, as much as I could, to not let your death affect my memories. In reality, I did not want to let your death become part of who I was. I did not want people in Lenox to think of me as the girl whose dad committed suicide. That was part of what I eventually had to realize is, that it is a part of who I am. That I am that girl. I don't want to be her, but I had little choice in the matter. It is something that I still have to struggle with: the fact that I am the girl. I just want to push it so far away from me, but I can't. It isn't that simple to separate ourselves from our experiences. You would have been proud at the memorial service: I spoke. I spoke about you, I got up in front of all those people, and I told them what a good father you had been. Many people cried while I was speaking. I did not. I remained calm and collected. I did not let my emotions about you and your death interfere with what I wanted to say about you. It's hard to understand a crying person; I made sure they got it. You were a great father. I had lots of fun with you growing up. When you built me the tree house with the zip line running from it, or the day we got Loki or the time you agreed to play the hand clapping game to "Miss Suzy had a steamboat." Those were good times for all of us. Before the divorce, before depression, before you wasted away. Six feet 6 inches tall and only 180 pounds. I don't know, maybe I am selfish for expecting you to live. The problem is that there is no easy way to know how to deal with this. I've looked around, read Plath's "Daddy" along with books about touching father-daughter relationships, books about horrible father-daughter relationships, books about people's dead fathers and it is just such a personal thing. I know that I'm supposed to heal in my own way, but it's hard to accept that I never will completely heal, that this is something I have to carry with me for the rest of my life. There is no going back to before. And it has affected me in so many ways, spilling over into other relationships. As I said, it becomes so hard to trust other people in general, but especially boys, which is not to say that I haven't had my share of bad choices when it comes to men. As I get closer to people, trust remains an issue. Having been already hurt so badly by someone who is supposed to care for me doesn't boost my faith in people that I just meet. Trusting a guy, to really care about him and give him the opportunity to break my heart, is not something that makes me comfortable. In fact, it is not just limited to guys. My best friend, Jenna, who by the way is a saint, has had to deal with this time and time again. What happens is that something will upset me and I will become convinced that Jenna is going to realize that she no longer wants to be my friend. That would hurt me so much and I can't bear the thought of her abandoning me. Therefore, I beat her to it and push her away. I tell her that I can't hang out, that she doesn't really want to be friends with me because I am a horrible person or some excuse. This has never worked on her and by this point I have given up on pushing her away. She always shows up at my house or calls incessantly, telling me that I'm nuts if I think she doesn't want to be friends or she hates me or however I phrase it. The underlying issue is that it scares me to have people be this close to me. For a long time no one was. However, there have been several good, persistent people who have managed to get through. They have meant the world to me. I said earlier that you destroyed my world; this is true, but the people who have been there with me during the past eight years are the ones who have built it back up. At the time, moving to Lenox was the worst thing that I could ever imagine, given the circumstances; however, living in Lenox may have been one of the best things for me. I know you and my Grandparents never did quite get along that well, but they have been so good to me. Every school day for six years my Grandmother got up and made me lunch. Until I had my license, my Grandfather drove me to school. Then he drove back to school to drop off my lunch on the days that I forgot it. If I was in a play or playing basketball or softball, he'd again drive to pick me up from rehearsal or practice. Then my Grandmother would make me dinner and perhaps do a load of laundry for me (in my own defense, she was always afraid I would break the washer and therefore would not let me wash my own clothes) and always they would be willing to help me with any homework. I think Grandaddy was more interested in my sophomore biology research project than I was. Also the community makes Lenox a wonderful embracing place. From the parents who cheered for me whenever I scored at basketball games to teachers staying after school sometimes just to talk about class or college, to directors who were sincerely interested in how we were doing daily: everyone was very welcoming. Both Jenna and Fallyn have pictures of me on display in their living room along with pictures of the family. These parents took me into their homes. I know that while sometimes I have to do chores at the Nejaimes' (Jenna's family) I am always welcome at dinner. That has meant so much to me over the past years that while my traditional nuclear family fell apart there was this larger community of people willing to welcome me into their homes. Also, my mother did everything she could to make my life easier. While she could not be there all the time, she did split her time between Steve and me fairly evenly until junior year, where they both moved to Lenox. I cannot begin to imagine what life would have been like if she had forced me to move to Ithaca after your death. You know how I felt about Steve at the time and moving in with them would have not been good for me. She also would talk to me daily, pretty much through freshman year of college, willing to discuss any problems I was having or anything I was studying in school. While I didn't see her as much most kids see their moms, I probably spoke to her more. It was a horrible thing that you did to me, to yourself, to your parents, your sisters, my mom. I know that when it comes down to it, this wasn't something you did with any of us in mind. The pain had just gotten too bad, too overwhelming; you wanted to end it. You weren't thinking about us, only you. But it really affected and really hurt all of us. It was hard for a long time. You should know that, but I guess that the main thing that I want you to know that while it was hard for so long, I am okay now. I made it through and by most accounts, I made it through well. Sadness does creep in; it would have been your 42nd birthday this past week. Every year I think about how adamant you were about the fact that you weren't going to go bald, but you were going to be like Albert Einstein with crazy white hair when you were an old man. However, this is one of those times when I have to smile through the sadness. After you died, I never thought I would be okay again. But I am. I have great friends and family, I go to my dream school, and I have a boyfriend who treats me so well. He wants me to be happy and does everything he can to ensure that. He is driving up to Ithaca on Christmas Eve just so he can see me on Christmas Day. While I still miss you, I am happy with the way my life in Lenox went and I am happy with my life at Brown. I have been so lucky to have so many good people around me to help me first smile and then trust again. For a long time I felt really guilty about being happy with my life in Lenox. I felt as though being glad to be in Lenox was in some way also celebrating your death. I think, though, you wouldn't have wanted your death to be the end of my life. And it hasn't. What I went through to get here wasn't great but I don't think that I would want to change it because in the end the bad experiences are so outnumbered by the good ones.
Love,
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