The Once and Always Valentine

Valentine weekend isn't always sweetness, light, and lacy hearts for everyone. The expectation of fluffy lovey doviness can do a number on a person and dredge up fountains of grief. For me, the grief is missing what once was.

The photo above is my very first Valentine. The man that was at the seat of every joy and misery of my life for my first 19 years, my father.

In the early hours of Valentine's Day 2007 he died of a self-inflicted gunshot.

Final.

Irrevocable.

Devastating.

It changed.... it changed EVERYTHING and at the same time changed nothing.

• I never understood him and now I never would.

• I was never sure he approved of me and now I'll never know.

• I had hoped time would heal our relationship and now I'll never find out.

• I thought someday the five of us, me and my brothers and sisters, would meet again and find our way. That hope is so small now I'm afraid to look at it too closely for fear the flame will extinguish.

His suicide is not about me- I no longer wonder why his wife and children (and grandchildren, and eventual great-grandchildren weren't a reason for him to stay.)

His suicide isn't about me, but it has changed me and I contemplate that change every February.

I do not speak lightly of 'killing myself'.

I do not mime pulling a trigger against my head when frustrated.

I do not understand the why of what happened but have come to accept that the why won't change what happened.

Depression runs in my father’s family. When I was growing up we didn’t use that word: we called it ‘moody’. Or ‘dramatic’. It wasn’t seemly to feel things so strongly that they brought you to your emotional knees.

No; those feelings were something to keep hidden. To avoid acknowledging at all costs. Well-adjusted people did not cry, did not doubt their purpose. And if we suspected we were NOT well-adjusted people… well missy that type of talk should just be left unsaid.

And I suspect tamping down that type of talk, that avoidance which ran generations deep lead to my father making a permanent action against a temporary situation.

But I will never really know.

That Valentine didn’t leave a note. Didn’t bare his feelings and seal them with a kiss. That day wasn’t tied up neatly with a ribbon. The flowers that week weren’t the kind we would display in crystal vases and remember with joy.

The commercials show that true love comes from @Jared and every kiss begins with @Kaye. That chocolate makes everything better (and don’t get me started on swallowing down the pain with food!)

Maybe that is true. Maybe that is what healthy people do. Maybe this is, then, their day.

I just can’t take the cupids and velvet. I want to go straight for the rainbows and shamrocks of March.

It’s getting better now, but not because I miss him less or feel ‘over it’. Its because I am determined to break the chain of silence and embarrassment.

I do, now, seek and accept help for depression.

I do, now, speak up when things are overwhelming.

I do, now, accept that addiction and depression are family traits, and also accept that these traits do not have an unbreakable hold on me.

I try to clearly see and learn from my past, even if some of those memories are frightening and painful.

I am still influenced by that past, still make emotional choices based on long-held conditioning.

But I am better, and I will be better still.

I miss you Daddy, even through all the complications and anger and fear. I miss you and I still love you, my once and always valentine.

If you have thoughts of self-harm reach out. If it’s too hard to reach out to family or friends contact @NationalSuicidePreventionLifeline at 1-800-273-8355. Or text to 741741 in the US and Canada (85258 in the UK and 50808 in Ireland) and communicate without speaking out loud.

#NationalSuicidePreventionHotline