And today, another kind of memorial. No, I don't plan on sharing every, single memory of every, single event of this time of year, but in these two cases, they reflect things that are a huge part of why and how this blog even came to be, and since they are things that do not intrude on the privacy of other, living people, I feel I can, and possibly should, share them.
About a year-and-a-half after my mother passed, my father died. That anniversary would be today. I'm not sure if my hesitation to tap into the feelings tied to that event are simply because it is newer, or if it is related to certain, other factors, but I do know that it is something I still feel warrants a more delicate touch than my mother's memory. I also want to respect the memory of him for others, because he had more involved family than my mother did, and I've no doubt the emotions his death roused continue to sting and ache for all involved. I would never want to hurt anyone that way.
Nevertheless, the six years that have passed since his death have been a time of challenge and change, and I'm convinced a great deal of that has been at least partially a result of his influence on my life and that of my mother. Because of the emotional nature of my memories of him, and what they represent, I still face them with a detachment that allows me to more logically and realistically approach them.
Only this past year have I been able to more openly and honestly try to face the mess that was left in my life after my father died. He had been a single father with sole custody at the turn from the 80s to the 90s, trying to finish raising a young teen daughter with a rather large set of emotional baggage for one so young, with other issues that were surfacing in her, but that were unknown at the time. He was not one to have much patience for the idea that mental illness is real, and not a choice made by the sufferer. Signs that are now widely accepted as symptoms of pediatric bipolar disorder were either unknown at that time, or were simply ignored in my case, and according to his behavior, believed to be signs of stubbornness and disobedience in an otherwise phenomenal child (according to his relations of it, later). But added to the guilt of my existence, and all the baggage itself, I'm sure his path through the remainder of his life was as challenging on that side, as the severe health issues that slowly claimed and consumed him over the decades that followed. Surely his was not an easy existence.
As with my memories of my mother, the things I recall about my father have needed to be re-sorted through the filters of my adulthood, and as this process progresses, my mind appears to be opening and even inserting measures of empathy for him. This is a turn of events I never expected, but had hoped would happen someday; I'm happy to have it happening so relatively soon. I didn't want to waste the rest of my life on harboring pain. I'm not to the point I can open my heart completely to his memory, but I can at least feel the edges softening and his humanity being made into something I can see more objectively.
There are things, as I believe I mentioned previously, for which I'm grateful I received through my experience with him. My "medical education", for instance, and the ability to understand and tolerate illness and not judge others for their physical challenges. I'm also grateful for the sensitivity I now have for the emotional needs of others, through having my own shown so clearly to me. His love of visiting those who were having a rough time of things, including the elderly shut-ins and the nursing home in our neighborhood, taught me to have a great respect for showing love to those who might not otherwise get enough.
But he was not a completely bad father, mind you. I was fortunate to always have clean clothes, a roof over my head, and food available to me. When I wanted something enough, he did what he could to help provide it for me. I wanted to play the violin in 4th grade, so he set up a rent-to-own on a student instrument, which I played through to my sophomore year of high school, when I developed "my first mad, passionate love" of the cello (for which I'm certain he was grateful the school had some to lend!) When I wanted to go on tours with the high school music programs, he would cover what I couldn't through fundraising, permitting me to travel all over the western states, multiple times.
He was a humble truck driver; he ran a local route, and for most of the time he had custody of me, til the end of his career, he drove a daily route between SLC and Thiokol, north-west of Ogden, UT. While much loved by nearly all he met, and even honored by NASA as a provider of "exceptional civilian service", he received an abysmal wage and terrible benefits for it from his base company, and felt that the friendship and acceptance he received from those he served along his way (and the way the companies would always make an extra employee gift, every year, just for him) was enough to balance out the fact that the low pay made living with heart disease and other illness, and raising a daughter alone, a monumental challenge.
So you see, it is not that I am overlooking the pain of the past; I'm simply trying to build a more realistic view of it, because context can make all the difference! Sometimes the most healing can come when we open our minds to the possibility that we might not have seen The Big Picture in all its haphazard glory. Given that he and I will not be getting the chance to discuss it as two, mature adults capable of such discussion, I must make the conversation for myself, and wage both sides as likely as they would have been...and I choose to try to make the two of us as loving, as we were at odds.
I'm coming to believe, as time moves onward as it always does, that this blog project is as much about my coming to terms with myself, as helping others realize that they are not alone in this crazy mess we call living. Don't get me wrong; I wouldn't be doing this rather terrifying Project if I didn't want that one or two out there to know that they are worth it. But what is really so wrong with my realization that *I* am worth it, too? How could I love others without finding love for myself? That would be dishonest...and if anyone knows me, they know I am nearly compulsively honest!
So, as I continue along the path of my life, and remember the paths of those who have gone before me, I hope that my experience helps give this world a better view of what can be, and in a good way. Because we all know there are too many examples of the darkness in this world; perhaps it's time to see that light can be reinstated within it!
Better day, my friends.
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