20 Year Grief-A-Versary

My father died when I was twelve years old. I have written down that sentence more times than I can count. Why, you ask? Because it’s something that has haunted me, characterized me, made me who I am. It is all I knew about who I was since the moment it happened. From that moment forward it became my whole identity, my personality. I was the girl with no father. It meant that I was allowed to be perpetually sad, undeniably misunderstood, mysteriously guarded.

It was a conversation starter. If it wasn’t brought up, I’d be sure to somehow bring up a subject that included parents or surrounding death. Because that was all I knew. Growing up without a father, I thought that it somehow made me more interesting. And in a way, it did. People would look at me with wonder and a sad look in their eyes and tell me how strong I was, how far I’ve come, how proud he would be of me. How every girl needs her daddy.

And so I went on, clinging on to the persona of the sad girl. From the memories I have of my father, or rather, those that were instilled in me - he was an amazing person. And from what I can actually remember, he was a good dad. These are memories pulled from my brain of every other weekend spent together due to my parents divorce, and I have fond memories of us going bowling, going to the movies, and visiting my nana. I remember the man who smelled like Marlboro’s, who would sing “My Only Sunshine” to me, who would call me pumpkin. I remember him teaching me how to swim. But most of all, I remember him making me and everyone else laugh constantly.

Twenty years later, I am experiencing grief in a whole new light. Because I never wanted to be mad at a dead person. A person I am still learning about. A person I can barely remember these days. A person everyone loves and is still extremely fond of. Everyone always tells me that I got the best version of him as a father. A part of me wants me to tell them they can have it, because he’s gone, and I only had him for a short time in my life. I’ve held on to the idea of this great man, and I truly believe that he was. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get to be angry. I’ve never allowed myself to be. Angry to be left behind without him, picking up the pieces of that sad little girl I’ve held onto for so long. Angry that he didn’t see me graduate high school and college. Angry that he couldn’t hold me when I had my first real heartbreak. Angry that he wasn’t there to see me grow from a child, to a woman. But anger is just another form of grief that I had to get through, twenty years later.

The sad little girl persona has come full circle. And I’ve felt it all. I’ve gone from sad, to bitter, to angry, to accepting. Because the person I have become and what people told me when I lost him is true. I am the girl with no father, but I’m also stronger because of it. I navigated through this world without him and I’m still here, continuously working on being someone I pray that he’d be proud of. He may not have been perfect, but his impact has been tremendous.

There is, of course, that part of me that will always feel cheated by life somehow, that something will always be missing. Because after all, every girl needs her daddy.