Tragedy and time: How I came to understand my dad after suicide
My dad was a shining light, but like a lighthouse beam, the darkness was not far behind
I was very much Daddy's girl. Forever trying to be as close to him as I could; squeezing in beside him as he lay on the couch to watch TV or clinging to his back as he drove our Big Red through the country. I still held his hand as a teenager, even at the Avalon Mall, where everyone could see.
My father, Gerald Hayward, was one of those impossibly charismatic men that you sometimes find in rural communities.
He went out of his way to find just the right piece of clothing for an event. He loved to dance and was the first one on the floor at every wedding. He never stopped moving and singing.
He was silly, and funny, and a little wilder than you might think a father should be — at least in those days.
He was the brightest light in my world.
But his light was less like the sun and more like the beam of a lighthouse: incredibly bright but always trailing the darkness behind.
For my father wasn't always silly and funny and warm. Sometimes he became angry and volatile and scary. My child's mind essentially split him into two dads: the one I knew and loved and this unpredictable stranger.
I never knew if it was the drinking that preceded the switch between these two dads, or if he used alcohol to help him manage the switch once it had begun. But when scary dad showed up, I would hide under the bed or my mom would gather us up and take us to my nan's for a day or two. And when I got older, I tried my daddy's-girl best to calm him; to turn his attention to me instead.
That's what I was doing one night when I was 18. He came into my bedroom and lay on my bed. He was strange. Crying. Not making much sense. Something was different than all the other times I'd seen him like this.
Hugging me too tightly, he said, "When I'm gone, you have to take care of your mother for me."
Somehow I knew he wasn't talking about the distant future. But instead of comforting him, instead of offering to help, instead of calling my mother or our doctor, I got angry. I screamed at him to get out of my room. I yelled that I was just a kid and I didn't deserve to carry his responsibilities.
An albatross of guilt
I had no idea that I would regret those words for the rest of my life. That I would carry an albatross of guilt over them forever.
Not too long after, on a gorgeous June morning, I was awoken by a knock. A family friend was standing there. She told me my father was dead from suicide and she was going to drive me back home.
I came to see how much strength it took to hold on as long as he had, until his youngest child was grown.
My memory of the following days is spotty. My mother at the dining room table, where she normally sat to grade schoolwork, writing a poem for his memory card. My brother, who found Dad's body, with a vacant look fathoms deep. My sister wailing as we drove to the graveyard. Standing at the gravesite, leaning into the wind that cooled my hot face as it threatened to push me down.
In the early years, I didn't talk about my father.
I cut myself off from my family and childhood friends so that I could reinvent myself as someone whose dad didn't kill himself. I did everything I could to forget I even had a father, let alone one who apparently loved me so little that he chose to leave.
My struggles gave me insight into his
But of course, the truth will out.
As I grew, so too did my understanding of mental illness. Our family doctor told us he believed my father had untreated bipolar disorder. That perhaps his alcoholism was a form of self-medication.
I recognized my own struggles with mental health and they gave me insight into his. Eventually the enormity of his pain became clear to me. How much he struggled to tame this thing that threatened to drag him under.
I came to see how much strength it took to hold on as long as he had, until his youngest child was grown.
My heart finally accepted that Dad had never lacked love for me and our family; in fact, he had so much love for us that he walked through hell every single day just to stay with us.
Today, I talk about my dad as much as I can. I share both of my dads — the good and the ugly — with the world, and I am matter-of-fact about the manner of his death.
I refuse to shy away from hard conversations and uncomfortable moments for I know too well that one moment is all it takes to change a world forever.
While Dad's life ended that day, my love for him didn't. And with the alchemy of time, I have turned that tragedy into a commitment to pour all that love into being the friend I wish he'd had.
If you need help …
Mental Health Crisis Line: 1-888-737-4668. Bridge the gApp: https://www.bridgethegapp.ca/adult/
Canada Suicide Prevention Service: 1-833-456-4566 (phone) | 45645 (text) | http://www.crisisservicescanada.ca (chat)
Kids Help Phone (24/7): 1-800-668-6868 (phone), 'CONNECT' to 686868 (text), live chat counselling at www.kidshelpphone.ca.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
