It’s my birthday and i’ll cry if I want to.

My birthday sucked this year. There, I said it.

While I had numerous well wishes that day from people I love and adore, all of them wishing me the best day ever, something I myself do when I wish someone a happy birthday; it was anything but.

I look at a persons birthday as the one day where they have carte blanche to be as self indulgent as they want. After all, it’s the day you were born and that’s pretty special.

This year was different. It’s been a full year since I lost my dad. Fathers day is also right around the corner, it follows the Sunday after my birthday. It’s been hitting me extra hard this year.

Because I actually feel it.

Things are different when you’re lost in the cluster-fuck of funerals, asshole family members, memorial services and countless other things.

So I cried. I was walking to the metro after a particularly trying day at work and I just couldn’t keep it together, so I stopped trying.

The worst part of my birthday this year though?

Orlando.

I was kind of in the dark about it because we had gotten up early and headed off to my favorite place for brunch-something I am always down for.

When I finally caught up with the news, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’m a straight ally, which means something and nothing at the same time. Something because the majority of the world *is* heterosexual and we have the power to collectively change things. Nothing because I don’t understand. I am blissfully ignorant (okay maybe not blissful but ignorant none the less) about what it’s like to be anything but a hetero/cis female.

I know how crippling hate can be. I have been tormented and bullied, judged and more by society for a number of reasons. Yet none of them were a result of my sexual preferences.

Some of the most awesome people I know are everything but straight. Their sexual identify means nothing to me, I love them anyway and that’s why this hurts me to the very core.

I know all too well what it’s like to loose someone you love. I’ve said goodbye to far too many people who mean something to me including friends who were much too young. To loose someone you love to hate?

Nope.

I still can’t fathom these senseless deaths and I can’t help but think about all the what if’s? What if that was one of my friends who are basically family to me? What if someone totally lost their shit because they were gay/trans? I’m still having a hard time trying to put my feelings into perspective but I can and will say this; you’re all so brave and I admire you so much.  After the Orlando shooting so many of my friends came forth and opened up to the entire world who they truly are. I love them and admire them even more.

In a world full of hate, love needs to win. 

tattoo design

Not so down with the (home) sickness.

Imaginary bonus points if you get the obscure reference in the title.

Anyway…

There’s something about Easter that really makes me miss my family. I’m not really sure; it’s not something that I can put my finger on exactly.

When I still lived in Ontario, I would always come home. No matter where I was, what I was doing, how messy my life was at that moment, I always came home for every holiday. This is an obscure point of pride when you work in the hospitality industry. Life is hectic and crazy when you work in a kitchen and nothing beats coming home.

Home to the house you grew up in with your mom making the most kick ass dinner(s) for Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas.

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When I first moved here, my mom would always ask me if I was going to bother coming home and I would always tell her no. Eventually, she stopped asking. Every year though I always become overcome with this feeling of Mellon collie and homesickness. I think this year is extra sad because I am finally able to properly grieve my fathers’ death and my mom sold the house last year. The only real ‘home’ I have ever known is long gone to someone else who will create their own memories with their family.

Easter weekend was always something I enjoyed and not because it was a long weekend. It’s nice to get together with family and have this amazing dinner and just hang out and be together and eat entirely too much food. So it was nice when I started dating my fiancé and I could enjoy all those things with his family. While still missing my own, obviously I don’t view his family as a replacement.

There’s just something about being around a table with tons of people, even more (awesome) food and 3 different conversations in just as many languages. It’s boisterous and loud but never, ever dull and always lots of love.

I’m pretty pissed that I had to miss out this year though due to shady dental work. That is, in and of itself is a whole other situation that I will save for another day. It’s been almost two weeks since I went to get a filling dealt with and I haven’t been able to eat/talk/smile normally since the novocaine wore off…

In any case, Easter always makes me feel nostalgic for home, my mom and her scalloped potatoes and family.

We take so many things for granted and often don’t truly appreciate their value until their gone. I find that the older I get, the more I find that I miss the ones who are no longer here.

 

These dreams.

The whole process of dreaming fascinates me a little. Not enough to want to invest any real time in investigating them on say a scientific level; just enough that I will often find myself dissecting what happened that month/week/day that infiltrated my subconscious.

I often describe my dreams as if everything I had said/done/seen was tossed into a blender and rearranged in some way.

So last night, I went out for a walk with the love of my life. It was a nice night, crisp and snowing a little. My father loved the snow and every time it snows, I am often reminded of him. My dad has been weighing heavily on my mind as of late, the one year anniversary of his death has just passed and it’s usually this time of year that I miss my family. The craziness of the holidays usually means chaos and I don’t get to see everyone as much as I like, nor for any extended period of time. It’s also my nephews’ birthday and he and his sister are my rays of sunshine.

I had also caught up with a friend of mine who is also getting married this year. So inevitably, we talked about our weddings. I had mentioned that we were holding out for our honeymoon because we wanted to go to Alaska on a cruise and bring my dad’s ashes along. My dad had mentioned to me the summer before he died that if he could do it over again, he would have went to Alaska while he still had the chance. So going there to honor my dad was my love’s idea, which I thought was really sweet. Needless to say, with the wedding coming up and everything else going on, my dad has been weighing pretty heavily on my mind lately in a lot of different ways.

So fast forward to today, I had a dream about my dad. A dream so clear, vivid and concise that I was almost shocked when I woke up to the realization that it wasn’t actually true. I’m usually a lucid dreamer, so I can usually rationalize and recognize a dream for what it is.

Not today though.

I dreamt that I was at my parent’s old house, except it looked like it did when I was much younger. I was standing in the living room talking to my mom drinking my breakfast smoothie. It was a beautiful day outside; the living room was filled with vibrant, natural light. I was feeling peaceful, content and happy.

I can’t remember the last time I felt that good and at peace.

There was a loud knock at the door and my mom gestured for me to go answer it.

*Random side note- No one ever knocked and waited at my parents’ house, unless you were a stranger. I grew up in a home that had an open door policy, anyone was welcome.*

I walked down the hall and I couldn’t see who was standing there through the window, it was so bright and vibrant. Imagine my shock and surprise to see my dad standing there, alive and well. He looked at me and smiled and laughed. I said to him, “what are you doing alive?” My mom said something about a mix up or something and the whole time I’m standing there and I’m thinking to myself did the morgue notice you were still alive? You were cremated, but I don’t have any of your ashes yet because I keep forgetting to take some. I do remember holding the box that they were in and thinking about how heavy it was. And just lots of confusion. There was so much light, it was like he was glowing. You know the clichéd eternal light that’s usually associated with the deceased and angels? I had SO many questions and no one was answering them, they (my parents) just keep looking at me sheepishly and smiling. I wasn’t angry, just very, very confused.

Even more so when he went somewhere and came back with two small children. A boy and a girl neither one any older than the age of 4. I didn’t recognize these children so I don’t know how they’re relevant to my dream but among my confusion, my father looked at me and winked as he was tossing the little girl over his shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen.

That’s when I kind of woke up and the realization that my father was still dead and that was a dream. I closed my eyes and started to cry. Dream visits are emotionally draining. I had a lot of dream visits right after my father died. I literally asked him to stop because it would leave me in a depressed state for days after. So it’s been a while since he’s come to visit me. I like to think that he knows he’s been on my mind a lot lately and that I’m hurting really bad because he’s going to miss my wedding and everything else. I figure that he wanted to let me know that he’s OK and that maybe, just maybe I’m going to be OK too.

A year later.

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It’s only fitting that it’s snowing today. My dad loved it when it snowed; it was the one thing that gave him peace while he was in the hospital right before he died. It’s been a year now but it doesn’t feel like it at all. I remember reading this post someone had wrote lamenting about the first year she had lost her mom. It was beautiful and sad. I thought to myself I wonder what my first year would be like without him. My father was still very much alive at the time, except I knew that his time would be up sooner rather than later.

A year ago today I was rushing off to the airport trying so hard to keep it together. Alternating between sheer panic, tears and praying that I would make it home in time while kicking myself in the ass for not going home the night before.

My father and I had a tumultuous relationship at the best of times. Moving to Montreal has been both a blessing and a curse for our relationship. When my dad first got diagnosed, it was suggested to me to ‘have it out’ with my dad for all those times he did me wrong.

I disagreed. I didn’t feel that it would solve anything.

I was never a passive person when it came to my father. He knew all those times he pissed me off or did me wrong. I didn’t need to call him out for being an asshole again. The man was dying. While that didn’t give him carte blanche to do what he pleased, I didn’t see what the point of dredging up the past.

So I let it go. For me and for him because sometimes it’s just easier to accept an apology you’re not going to get. I felt at peace with this decision and I still do.

Everyone really liked my dad. He was a good man. He was also horribly flawed and when he fucked up, he fucked up pretty hard. He turned into an asshole when he drank too much. He had narcissistic personality traits and, a fragile ego.
As a result, a lot of people got hurt and I, more often than not, got caught in the crossfire. I am fiercely loyal to those that I love and I spent my formative years with a not so savoury opinion of him. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my dad. I didn’t always respect him though.

I was the apple of his eye though. My father adored me like no other.

I did not expect for it to hit me this hard.

I had already started to experience bouts of depression right after I found out my father was diagnosed and loosing my job two days later. Which is normal, depression doesn’t always last forever. What I wasn’t ready for was how bad my depression actually got. It’s become a daily struggle for me now.

Less than a week after my father died, my mom called me from Ontario. We had been robbed. The bastard that my father rented out a room to had cleaned us out in the middle of the night and he stole everything. He even took the damn dog food.

As if we hadn’t been through enough already?

I couldn’t breathe. I had just come home from Ontario 2.5 days ago and there I was standing there in my office stunned and enraged. The anger I experienced in that moment was like no other. The mind has this way of protecting itself from too much damage. I was in shock for another reason this time and I just felt so violated. How dare someone, anyone do such a thing to another person? It’s even more insulting when it happens right after you just lost your dad.

That was my childhood home. He contaminated it. I would never feel the same way after that.

There’s not much less frustrating than to be 760 km away and be that helpless.

I was surrounded by people, but I never felt more alone than I did at that moment.

I look back on the year that has gone by and it’s a jumbled blur. I attempted to go to school for French but had to drop out because my mind wasn’t capable of storing a damn thing. Memory loss is common with depression.  I went home in May to say goodbye at his celebration of life and to say good bye to the house. It sold in July and it will never feel quite right not to go there again. It was the only home I had known for 37 years.  I can’t eloquently break it down into months because one day just melts into the next. That’s what depression does to you. It robs you of so many things. I knew that it was coming, I just didn’t know when. When I lost Jason in 2009, I suffered from depression and that’s also when my OCD reared its ugly head, except I didn’t know it at the time. So I foolishly thought that I would be prepared this time around. Except…

Your mind can’t heal when the hits keep coming.

Shock is a funny thing. It can last for a couple of days, or in some cases, years. Shock is normal after any traumatic event and loosing my dad was no different. I got up; I went to school once a week and just tried to do whatever I could to function. I was living life on auto pilot and I was grateful that I didn’t have a job to go to at the time. I never knew when I would get an attack of the feels and I am not one for public displays of such things.

I developed anxiety. No surprise there, its depressions bestie. I would stay in bed until noon. Being a functional adult was exhausting. Even more so when you have to pretend to be OK when you are anything but OK at all.
Having to pick up the phone to make a phone call was terrifying. Panic attacks were the norm. So were emotional outbursts. This was my life now and I didn’t know how to cope.

In some ways, I still don’t.

Loosing a parent is a special kind of hell that no one understands until it happens to them.

This is why Nick and I didn’t announce our engagement right away. I needed time and space to just breathe. Only a handful of people knew before our official announcement and it certainly didn’t help matters when a few people said: “Now that the cats out of the bag.” Which made it sound like it was some big, dark secret from some people, which was not the case AT ALL. A lot of people got upset about that, but I can’t and WON’T take responsibility for the things that other people say, nor will I apologize for needing some time to myself. I have long since learned that you can’t please everyone and I stopped trying long before Nick came along.
It was nice while it lasted, some moments were bittersweet though. Like when my wedding dress arrived at the end of March.

It was a final gift from my dad. Except he knew nothing about it, he just gave me permission to rack up his credit card in whatever way I saw fit. I was supposed to buy a new laptop as a graduation gift but plane tickets for Nick and me and ultimately my wedding dress took precedence.

I remember how excited I was when my dress arrived, I pulled it out of the box and marveled at how beautiful it was and then I sat there and cried. It hurts knowing that my dad won’t be there when Nick and I say I do.

So it’s been a year. It’s been full of struggles, most of which I kept to myself. It’s taught me a lot of things though.

• That people automatically assume that depression is a feeling, not a disease. So you have to try not to get angry when people say things like: “Don’t dwell on the past.” This isn’t helpful at all, in case you were wondering. Especially when they themselves still have a dad.
• That it’s OK to not be OK.
• That there will be days when you randomly burst out in tears and have no idea as to why.
• Those moments of I’ll just call my dad and ask him and then remembering that you don’t have the means to do that anymore will cut you deep and fill you with regret for not taking the time to learn how to do whatever it is that you want to do, from him when you had the chance.
• To be more open about my mental illness. Depression is hard on so many levels. Some days it’s all consuming and getting out of bed is a bigger challenge than most people know.
• You’ll see the true colors of your family members and some of them are rather ugly.
• That the people you expect to be there for you aren’t. You’ll be pleasantly surprised by the one’s that do.
• Little things can cause a memory trigger and it usually brings forth more tears. Like the first snow of the year after you lost your dad. It reminded me of one of our last conversations.
• Birthday’s and other special occasions are hard. Especially all those firsts, it’s funny how a quick text or a quick phone call takes on a whole new meaning when they stop coming.
• Some days you will feel like you’re drowning and you are helpless to stop it. All you can do is hang in there as best as you can and hope that you have a rope to hold onto.

The list goes on and on. The worst part of loosing my dad is/was loosing myself in the process.

I used to be such a different person than I am now and I am not sure how I feel about this. 

I miss the person that I used to be and while I begrudgingly accept that I can never return to who I once was, I would give anything just to feel whole again and not hurt anymore.

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