Through Thick and Thin

Today marks eight years since my dad was called heavenward.

This day sucks. A lot. Although I guess that goes without saying.

I considered writing him another letter, much like the one I wrote two years ago. I’d cover things like how I listen to podcasts and it reminds me of him listening to talk radio – I even add my own commentary like he used to. I’d tell him how I saw one of his old coworkers after spin class and immediately wanted to call him. I’d let him know that despite the fact that there are still days where I am overwhelmed with unfathomable grief, I’m choosing to not be a victim of my circumstances.

Instead today I choose to tell a story of the day my relationship with my dad changed.

Let me start this by saying I was a terrible teenager. I know this is hard to believe because I’m such a phenomenal human being now – but just call up my mother. She’s got some horror stories. Topping that list is most likely the story below (or possibly the time she found my emo thoughts journal where I wrote about how much I hated her but I WAS AN ANGSTY TEENAGER OK times have changed).

I was a freshman in high school in Minnesota and struggled with self-mutilation and was having a particularly bad episode on the day this story takes place. I don’t recall what the catalyst was, but I do remember screaming at my mother that she doesn’t know what it feels like to wish you didn’t exist (this is the part where I remind you how awesome and *mostly* mentally stable I am today). This spurs some verbal sparring that ends with me locking myself into my bathroom and carving the words “FUCK YOU” into my bicep. Very proud moment for me, infinitely grateful that particular incision didn’t scar.

Naturally my parents fear for my life – because they are good parents who love me despite what you might read in my emo thoughts journal. My mother calls the suicide hotline while my dad stays in my room.

At this point I’m given two options – my parents will either call the police to come pick me up to take me to the hospital, or I can willingly get in the car with my dad to be taken to the hospital. It’s safe to assume that I got in the car with my dad to head to the hospital. I had my rational moments.

The car ride to the emergency room was silent except the occasional sound of my dad running his thumb along his knee. The silence continues while we check into the ER and wait what felt like hours to be called in to an evaluation room. As time passes the tension lessens between us and we are finally called into a room to speak with someone about the reason we are there.

Upon telling the gentleman the reason for our visit, he asks to see the location of the most recent mutilation. I pull my shirt to show him the eloquent phrase etched into my skin – to which he replies with one word. “Nice.” He finishes his charting and we are taken to another room.

Here we are told we will be met by a doctor shortly. In the hallway there’s a homeless man shouting about how “No white man popo gonna take me down!” and it is at this point I realize maybe this isn’t the place I want to be. Dad and I exchange glances and a chuckle when the doctor comes in to chat with us.

After a short conversation about my history of self-mutilation, what medication I’m on, and the frequency of these episodes he pulls my dad into the hallway. When they return we are again presented with options – the psych ward in the Minneapolis hospital we were at was full, but I could be taken at the psych ward in Saint Cloud OR if I felt okay I could go home.

My dad turned to look at me, considered some things, then returned his gaze to the doctor and said this:

“I think she’s going to be alright.”

We are given the go ahead to leave and in the car dad asks me if I want to go through the Taco Bell drive thru. I ordered my first ever Crunchwrap Supreme and we joke and laugh on the ride home.

It was this moment that gave me hope for my future. It was this man that I am incredibly proud to call my dad. My dad instilled a faith in myself that has brought endless encouragement since that day.  I am so grateful for a father who stuck with me through the scary times.

Today I raise a chalice of the nectar of the gods (Mountain Dew, obviously), chow down on some Chipotle, and watch Star Wars in his memory.

Love you, dad – to infinity, and beyond.