First Father’s Day Alone

Tomorrow would have been my father’s 57th birthday. We lost him like so many others in 2020, unsure whether he fell victim to COVID or underlying health issues exacerbated by COVID, but does it really matter? He’s still gone. I still miss him terribly amidst the many reminders that he’s no longer here, like his birthday. I still wish I could feel his warm embrace just one more time.

In honor of his memory, I’m publishing a post I wrote back in 2021. I think I never published it because it hits too close to home on way too many levels. The loss of my father left a gaping hole in my heart, and my first Father’s Day alone ultimately led to my first mental health inpatient stay. Here it is with minimal editing to preserve the original words and intent.

***Trigger Warning: death, grief, self-harm, suicidal ideation***

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The space between my last post and this one is not a pretty place. I’ve finally crawled out of the depression and started seeing the light in the world again, but my first father’s day alone tipped the scales on my mental health struggles and not in a good direction.

I’ve debated about whether I should write this out, if I’m safe to share my feelings and experiences in a world where so many still look down on people who struggle with their mental health. This is for the others out there that may find some help in my story, some comfort in words that make them feel less alone, and perhaps some hope that it IS possible to dig themselves out of the hole they themselves dug deeper every day.

It’s no secret to those close to me how much the death of my father in 2020 affected me. As the primary stable force in a life full of change, I lost a large part of myself when I lost him. On top of all the other craziness of 2020 in general and for me specifically, I didn’t take the time I needed to process all of the changes in my life. I forced myself through the necessary tasks of each day, crawling out of bed and slogging through the work day only to crawl back under the sheets as soon as possible. I did not want to do anything: work, cook, read, write, exercise, play games. All the activities I used to love felt empty and hollow, completely without joy. But I forced myself through what I could and tried to ignore how alone I felt in my own head.

I knew my first father’s day without dad would be rough. I even took time off work the Friday and Monday around that weekend hoping it would give me the space I needed to mourn and remember him. It was not enough.

I thought I had a good plan for the day. I woke up to tears and never really got control of them. I passed on joining my fiancé for menudo with his family, mostly because I didn’t want to feel like a sad stain on a day of celebration for the fathers still around to celebrate with their loved ones. I knew staying at home alone could be dangerous for me, so instead of wallowing in my sadness I tried to make it a morning of remembrance. I lit my white candle that only burns when thinking about dad, put on my playlist of Styx and Journey, and let the tears flow while remembering this awesome man I called dad. And boy did the tears flow.

It wasn’t until my fiancé came home and immediately had plans to go somewhere else that I realized how much I did not want to be alone. My mistake was not admitting those feelings, burying them and trying to pretend I would be okay while he went to a friend’s house to watch the Suns game. I mean, didn’t he see the red puffiness and despair in my eyes? I guess that was too often my default state in those days, so how could he know that day was any different than the rest of them? I sarcastically said “sure” when asked if it would be okay for him to go. Or at least it felt like sarcasm to me. Clearly it wasn’t enough to convey how I truly felt inside, the deep agony of loneliness weighing me down and making the world feel void of all joy and not worth living in anymore.

So he left and the tears continued. I couldn’t let our girls hear me balling uncontrollably, so as has been my habit on too many days during those months I turned on the bathroom vent and cried until my eyes hurt. I knew I shouldn’t be alone, knew I needed to be held and comforted and told everything would be okay, even if I didn’t believe it. But I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself. How could my needs be more important than my fiancé enjoying his father’s day? I mean, he’s an amazing father. Doesn’t he deserve a happy afternoon with friends instead of trying to pull me out of the all-consuming darkness?

I tried drafting a text message to him a dozen times, not sure what to say that would make him realize how much I hurt inside, how much I needed him with me so I wouldn’t feel so alone. I started banging my hands on the tops of my thighs in frustration. My internal pain only got worse with the responses when I finally did reach out. Clearly he did not understand how today was different, how close I stood to the point of no return. But I was too scared to admit that in plain language even to myself, so the words came out veiled and unclear because that was the best I had in that moment.

Thank goodness for my reddit sobriety friends. The kind words of one of our regular posters helped keep me from going over the edge between suicidal ideation and my first real attempt. I don’t even want to type that, but it’s the truth. All I could think about in that moment was how much easier things would be if I just grabbed a kitchen knife and sat in the shower so I wouldn’t make a mess of things, how much I wanted the pain to end no matter what it took. So instead of doing something I couldn’t take back, I continued pounding on the tops of my thighs, over and over and over again. I didn’t realize how much I hurt myself until I saw the bruises later. I couldn’t feel it compared to the overwhelming pain inside.

When he came home later, I still struggled to admit how bad things really were in my head, how much I needed help beyond what I could receive from friends and family and kind internet comrades. But I did it, explaining that I thought I needed to seriously investigate a mental health facility to discuss my options for getting help.

This was my emotional rock bottom. I had been saying I needed help for quite some time, fantasizing about a break from the life that no longer felt sustainable, isolating myself more than I should and not being honest with myself or others about how sad I truly felt inside. Isn’t it healthy to grieve, to mourn, to stay in bed as much as possible trying to ignore the pain of just existing? How could I find joy in living without the man who helped raise me? Who brought me into this world only to leave me to figure it out all alone?

I admitted that I needed the help I’d be thinking about but too scared to ask for since he passed. I called a local mental health facility and explained my bathroom leg banging incident, openly explaining my state of mind and admitting these thoughts had been going on for quite some time. The first facility explained that any thoughts of suicide would be an immediate inpatient stay of 10 to 14 days. I scheduled myself to come in later that night while still looking around for other options. I found it in another facility with a shorter inpatient stay and a subsequent intensive outpatient program, and I switched my plans to go there the next day, giving myself the evening to put my affairs in order as much as possible before locking myself away for 5 to 7 days.

I used to think about mental health facilities and see Girl, Interrupted flashing in my mind, or at least that’s what I thought before actually going to one myself. That will be a post all by itself sometime soon. The short version is I learned a lot during my 7 days inpatient, but the real help I needed came when I tried to help myself again. Taking short term disability from work for the first time ever to focus on my mental health through the intensive outpatient program is one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I truly believe it’s what made the difference between continuing the cycle of depression and finally breaking free and feeling happy for the first time in way too long.

My individual therapist keeps asking me to identify why I find it easier to think positive thoughts than I did while in the depths of my depression, and I’m struggling to find a good answer. It sounds too simple to say that I am working to be happy, that instead of wallowing in the sadness I am identifying when depressive moments arise and actively fighting to be happy instead. But that really is the truth. I am using the tools I’ve developed from my inpatient stay and the intensive outpatient program I’m still working through to figure out why I may be feeling down so I can find the best way to address the feelings.

Am I hungry, angry, lonely, or tired? Are there some basic nurturing needs I’ve been missing that could help turn the down feeling around? Or is it a chain of automatic negative thoughts that I need to reframe more positively? I am truly blessed to have finally taken the time to get the help I needed. My biggest concern is that I won’t be able to take these skills back to my daily life when work is part of the equation again, but I’ve got a couple more weeks to figure out those details.

People may not understand what it feels like to lose the will to live. But for those that know that feeling all too well, there is hope. We just have to find it buried within ourselves under all the pain and sadness. It’s there, I promise, even when it feels like it’s not. Just take one small step that you know will make you feel better. Then another. And another. Maybe it’s a shower or a walk or a book or breakfast with a friend. I thought laying in bed or rewatching favorite movies helped. I should have known better when I didn’t feel any improvement afterwards. So be brutally honest with yourself about how you feel after these activities and find the ones that truly make a difference for you.

And last but most importantly, don’t be afraid to ask for professional help when you need it. Sometimes it can be the difference between life and death, literally.