Seven.
I remember the black and neon snowsuit I put on that day after I was pulled out of my second grade class.
I remember sitting in the back of my aunt and uncle's car as we drove to pick up my sister from her school.
I remember the funeral home and the long, brown fold out table that I sat on to call my first grade teacher and invite her to my daddy's funeral.
I remember the flag that was folded carefully and perfectly during the service. I still have that flag.
I remember my mom sitting in a rocking chair and staring. Being physically present but mentally and emotionally absent in her grief.
I remember sitting on the edge of my cousin's bed as he told me everything would be ok.
But it wouldn't be. Ever. He was gone. And at seven years old, I would never have a father again.
Mom said he had "depression".
Abandonment.
I don't remember when I learned the truth about my dad. The truth about how he left us.
He didn't die of depression like my mom had told me. That wasn't the whole truth, anyway. He had taken his own life. Shot himself in the head. He had chosen to be done with life, with us. My mom, my sister, and me.
I remember the huge, dark red blood spot on the carpet. In "the house where daddy died". We didn't live in that house anymore.
We lived with my aunt and uncle for a while and then moved into an old lime green and white trailer in a trailer park in town.
I understand the thoughts. The awful thoughts that get so intense and make you feel like you can't take another breath. You physically. Just. Can't. But when I think that way, feel that way, I remember my kids.
Why didn't he think of me? In that moment. When it all felt like too much. Why wasn't I enough for him?
Fatherless.
The loss of my dad wasn't that hard on me. Not in the moment. I was only seven, and I didn't have a concept of forever. I used to say "Daddy's upstairs" to comfort myself. But I knew he wasn't upstairs. I knew he was gone.
The hardest part of losing my dad at a young age for me wasn't so much the loss itself. It was his absence from my life. That irreplaceable person was gone. Forever. And in his place was emptiness.
I saw all the other kids, my friends, my cousins, with their dads. Even people much older than me had their dads. And I knew mine was gone. And he wasn't coming back. Ever. I can hardly remember having a father and yet I will never have that relationship again.
And it didn't really matter that my dad wasn't perfect. Mine was very flawed. But he was mine. He was part of me.
And even now, as an adult, I still feel that loss. I still feel alone. And empty. Like something is missing. Because he is.
Childhood.
I have bits and pieces of memories from when I was little, but next to nothing from before my father died.
What I do remember isn't all bad. I remember living on an acreage with a big, yellow farmhouse that was probably a lot smaller than I remember it to be.
I remember the yellow chicken coop and "my" golden rooster that "danced" in the doorway. I remember riding my big wheel down the winding, gravel driveway.
And I remember the playhouse my dad built me that looked just like the "big" house. [I wonder if that is proof that he loved me once, that he took the time to build that for me, us]. I remember the sandbox that he built for us too - where I buried his cigarettes.
After he died, I remember the friends I had at the trailer park: Tasha and Brandy, my sister and I. We rode our bikes through the rows of trailers and played at each others houses and had so much fun. I wonder now how I could be so happy after such a big loss, but it hadn't really hit me yet.
I remember the roller rink that my sister and I walked to nearby. We would do the limbo and one of us would win every time. I remember the trip to adventureland my mom took me on when my sister went to a grief camp for kids without me.
I remember when my mom met my step dad and they took us to Burger King almost every night so we could play in the ball pit while they talked. I remember feeling happy when they got married and thinking that maybe I would have a dad again. Maybe.
School.
When I was little I really liked school. In kindergarten my mom said that one day I fell off the top of the jungle gym and hit my head but didn't want to go home because I liked it so much. In first grade I had my first crush on a blonde haired boy named Chad. He wore super cool black and neon biker shorts (it was the 80s) and I brought him candy and gum and sat next to him on the bus ride to school each day. In second grade, well, we've already covered that.
In third grade we moved to a different town to live with my mom's boyfriend and future step-dad, Steve. He had bought my mom the brick house that she wanted that was only a couple blocks from the HyVee grocery store where she worked as a cake decorator. I switched schools.
The first (almost) three years at my new school were great. I had two best friends that I did everything with. We ate together, jumped rope at recess together, and rode our bikes after school. We had sleepovers at each others houses. We even got our moms to buy us matching outfits sometimes so we could dress alike.
But toward the end of fifth grade, the year before middle school, that all changed.
I was ten years old and in the fifth grade the day that Bethany and Lizzie (my two best friends) pulled me into the girls bathroom to talk. They told me that they couldnt be my friends anymore.
We were going into the sixth grade the following year and their older sisters had told them that if they were friends with me they wouldn't be "popular". This because my older sister wasn't popular, but theirs were.
I cried and cried and they hugged me that day in the bathroom. They said they were sorry. But when we left, everything changed. It had been the three of us for nearly three years. And now? I was alone.
This incident was a turning point for me. I never again had friends that close. I felt abandoned again. I was abandoned again. First by my dad, now by my friends.
What was (is) wrong with me?
Hi "M" those are some vivid, sad memories and a good read. It blows my mind how hard it is escape our childhood trauma. You remember yours like a recorder playing over and over in your head. That's from 30 years ago. When I was meditating a lot and listening to a lot of instuctional videos, they said that's what happens.... for some reason bad things stick to our brain like super glued velcro while all the good stuff slides off quicker than a slip and slide never to be remembered again. It is so true. Self awareness to remember and feed off good things takes a lot more work..... for some reason, the mind don't crave the good stuff. 💚. I'm sorry you are still carrying that baggage and burdens with you and I'm sure it got tripley reinforced when you lost your mom at 16. SUCH POWERFUL AGE MARKERS! so sorry M.