No longer afraid to let myself love
When I was younger, I was afraid to allow myself to form attachments, to love someone. It began with the death of my father in 1985. I was only 8. I felt that I was in some way responsible for his death. He died on the Sunday before Memorial Day.
A lot of my memories from that era are hazy, but that weekend is crystal clear. My mother had taken me to get my annual Summer Haircut. The hairstylist cut my hair shorter, more boyish, than what was intended. There's a photo in the sidebar -- the middle Flickr picture -- that illustrates the haircut. We got back home, my father saw my hair and was furious. Just for the record, he had already had one heart attack a couple of years prior, and since had started an exercise routine of walking and modified his diet. He didn't have a traditional job. My parents owned a steel guitar manufacturing company and a recording studio. He also played in clubs around the area for some extra money. He was a very talented musician. Anyway, it was Saturday, so he left to play his gig, still pretty mad about my hair. I had invited one of my friends over to spend the night. It was life as normal -- or so I thought. While he was at the club that night, he had another heart attack. One of his friends who was at the club with him drove him to the hospital and called my mother. We took my friend home. My mom went to the hospital and I went to stay with my sister's mother-in-law. I went to church with them the next day, and their church had a potluck lunch after the morning service. I remember being in the meeting area of the church, having lunch, when my mother called the church and we had to leave. We went to the hospital. I still hadn't been told what happened. I thought I was going to get to see my dad, like the previous time. We got there and I was led into a small room where my mom and sister were sitting. They were both crying. I didn't get it. My mom told me that my dad was dead. I was devastated. I had the strangest dream that night, my dad took me out for ice cream and kept telling me how much he loved me. I told my mom about it and she thinks that it was his way of being able to say goodbye since I wasn't old enough to see him in the hospital.
That was the beginning of my distrust in my feelings. Bad things seemed to be happening to the people I loved. I was afraid to let myself love anyone for fear that it would make something bad happen to them. I was always especially afraid of also losing my mother as I was growing up. I can remember going with her when she re-did her will, specifying that if anything should happen to her, that I was to be placed in the care of my sister. That's a lot for an eight-year-old to have on her plate. At a time when my friends were playing with Barbies and Cabbage Patch Kids, I was dealing with the loss of my father and thinking dreadfully about what would happen to me if anything should happen to the rest of my family. In a lot of ways, it made me grow up faster than I normally would have. Nothing like facing the unexpected death of a parent when you're in 3rd grade. In some ways, I really lost my childhood innocence that year. Things were never the same again. Instead of looking at the bright side of things, I was always looking for the catch -- what was going to go wrong with any situation. That's not a fun way to spend the early part of your life, mourning your father and fearful that you will lose your remaining parent. It was just my mother and I at home for about 6 years. She remarried when I was 14. During that time, I really saw my mother at her best -- as a strong, independent woman. Here she was, having lost her husband of about 23 years, keeping the household running and being there for me. We did a lot of things around the house together that were typical "dad" things. I learned how to install a lightswitch, an electrical socket, we built science projects together, she was great, and she tried so hard. But I missed my dad so much -- and I still do. I can't help but think about all the things in my life that he didn't get to experience. He never got to see or hold any of his grandchildren. He wasn't there when I graduated from high school or when I got married. My mom told me a couple of years ago that he had told her at one point that he didn't think he would live to see me grow up. My parents were older when I was born. My mom was 38 and my dad was 49. He was only 57 when he died.
It took me a long time to work through my thoughts and feelings and come to the realisation that I wasn't cursing anyone by loving them. I'm glad that I reached that point. I'm happy to have found Julian, who loves me in spite of my flaws. He is, quite honestly, the best thing to happen to me. I feel free to be myself around him. I love him with all my heart.
A lot of my memories from that era are hazy, but that weekend is crystal clear. My mother had taken me to get my annual Summer Haircut. The hairstylist cut my hair shorter, more boyish, than what was intended. There's a photo in the sidebar -- the middle Flickr picture -- that illustrates the haircut. We got back home, my father saw my hair and was furious. Just for the record, he had already had one heart attack a couple of years prior, and since had started an exercise routine of walking and modified his diet. He didn't have a traditional job. My parents owned a steel guitar manufacturing company and a recording studio. He also played in clubs around the area for some extra money. He was a very talented musician. Anyway, it was Saturday, so he left to play his gig, still pretty mad about my hair. I had invited one of my friends over to spend the night. It was life as normal -- or so I thought. While he was at the club that night, he had another heart attack. One of his friends who was at the club with him drove him to the hospital and called my mother. We took my friend home. My mom went to the hospital and I went to stay with my sister's mother-in-law. I went to church with them the next day, and their church had a potluck lunch after the morning service. I remember being in the meeting area of the church, having lunch, when my mother called the church and we had to leave. We went to the hospital. I still hadn't been told what happened. I thought I was going to get to see my dad, like the previous time. We got there and I was led into a small room where my mom and sister were sitting. They were both crying. I didn't get it. My mom told me that my dad was dead. I was devastated. I had the strangest dream that night, my dad took me out for ice cream and kept telling me how much he loved me. I told my mom about it and she thinks that it was his way of being able to say goodbye since I wasn't old enough to see him in the hospital.
That was the beginning of my distrust in my feelings. Bad things seemed to be happening to the people I loved. I was afraid to let myself love anyone for fear that it would make something bad happen to them. I was always especially afraid of also losing my mother as I was growing up. I can remember going with her when she re-did her will, specifying that if anything should happen to her, that I was to be placed in the care of my sister. That's a lot for an eight-year-old to have on her plate. At a time when my friends were playing with Barbies and Cabbage Patch Kids, I was dealing with the loss of my father and thinking dreadfully about what would happen to me if anything should happen to the rest of my family. In a lot of ways, it made me grow up faster than I normally would have. Nothing like facing the unexpected death of a parent when you're in 3rd grade. In some ways, I really lost my childhood innocence that year. Things were never the same again. Instead of looking at the bright side of things, I was always looking for the catch -- what was going to go wrong with any situation. That's not a fun way to spend the early part of your life, mourning your father and fearful that you will lose your remaining parent. It was just my mother and I at home for about 6 years. She remarried when I was 14. During that time, I really saw my mother at her best -- as a strong, independent woman. Here she was, having lost her husband of about 23 years, keeping the household running and being there for me. We did a lot of things around the house together that were typical "dad" things. I learned how to install a lightswitch, an electrical socket, we built science projects together, she was great, and she tried so hard. But I missed my dad so much -- and I still do. I can't help but think about all the things in my life that he didn't get to experience. He never got to see or hold any of his grandchildren. He wasn't there when I graduated from high school or when I got married. My mom told me a couple of years ago that he had told her at one point that he didn't think he would live to see me grow up. My parents were older when I was born. My mom was 38 and my dad was 49. He was only 57 when he died.
It took me a long time to work through my thoughts and feelings and come to the realisation that I wasn't cursing anyone by loving them. I'm glad that I reached that point. I'm happy to have found Julian, who loves me in spite of my flaws. He is, quite honestly, the best thing to happen to me. I feel free to be myself around him. I love him with all my heart.
posted by carrie at 12/09/2004 09:03:00 p.m.
1 Comments:
Wow. I'm sorry to hear that. I suppose it's a little different when your spouse dies opposed to leaving. It's too bad that your father wasn't more involved in your life. For me, the loss of my father was made all the worse by the fact that I was a total daddy's girl. I wanted to spend all my time with him, forget my mom.
One other thing I thought about -- I was a surprise baby. My sister is 13 years older than me, and I already mentioned my parents' ages when I was born. After my dad died, she said to me that she thought that part of the reason I was here was to help keep her functioning after dad died. She said that she worked through things more knowing that she had someone who was depending on her for everything. It's nice to know that just my presence helped my mom during a difficult time.
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