The Exception

This is not my usual kind of post.

It might not be as positive, and I think today that’s alright.

Today is my father’s death day. I don’t know exactly how many years it commemorates, but it should be around 13 or 14.

I didn’t even know until this evening, when my mother texted me about it. In the past, we’ve often gone to my father’s grave on his birthday (and we ate pizza at the cemetery, which was quite cool), but we never really did anything on his death day, so I didn’t know.

My father died when I was a small child. After years and years of depression (or so I was told), he killed himself and left a widowed mother of two.

Sounds tragic, right? Like an unhappy ending to an unhappy life. Yet from what I know, he was a jokester, a funny man, with passion and many interests. A musician, doctor, and devoted husband.

I can’t second any of that, of course. I only have one very faint memory of him, and even that’s starting to fade.

Life has gone on since his death, though I won’t deny it hasn’t scarred my family. I’m sure he’s the reason for at least some of my struggles.

But on this particular day, I’m laying in bed in another country, a hostel room shared with friends who have no idea what I’m thinking about, and I don’t know how I should feel. There are so many valid responses I could have:
I could cry, I could break something in anger, or drink myself into oblivion. Instead, I’m just staring at the ceiling.

I feel as if I hadn’t slept in days, exhausted and sluggish. Part of me wants to cry, sure, but there’s nowhere private to go. Should I light a candle for the man who left? Do I even feel anything at all?

I don’t know.

And I’m not sure how much sense it makes to wonder what would’ve been different if he hadn’t killed himself, because he ultimately DID. There’s nothing I can do to change that. Without that event in my life, my little half sister would’ve never been born. I might’ve been happier. Who knows. I might’ve hated him.

I can’t think properly. Like the stage just before a headache, when your brain gets heavy. Like morning fog on green fields.

I want to be sad, furious, nostalgic. But am I really? Or am I forcing those emotions on myself because I think I SHOULD feel them?

I just wish I were home to hug my boyfriend.

Tomorrow I will write about something nicer, I promise.

Peace out,
Emilia