Grieving the living
Image Courtesy: Strike Magazine Chattanooga
I wish I could say that the song Nutshell by Alice in Chains was not fueling the writing of this piece. However, as unfortunate as it may be, it is the entire inspiration behind my writing at the moment. Maybe because when it comes on, I find myself somewhere completely separate from reality. I am no longer present with my current self, but I am in my garage at eight years old. The smell of car oil and old tools consumes my nostrils, and all I can see is my dad’s body moving violently with the rhythm of the song. His face angry, and his voice strained as he sings along. When I was a kid, my dad was both the coolest and worst person I knew. I didn’t fully understand him; he had this tormenting energy surrounding him that made me scared to ask too many questions sometimes. On the other hand, he seemed to know everything about anything, and he thought aliens were real, which was badass to me as a kid. He was certainly smart but didn’t exactly know how to channel that gift into good things. I loved him though, probably more than anyone, and it was my job for a long time to protect him.
He isn’t dead. In fact, I’m sure he hasn’t moved an inch out of our hometown. I just haven’t spoken to my dad in a long time, long enough to make him a stranger. I had experienced the grieving process at thirteen when my parents were divorced and I was able to choose to keep seeing him or not. As a teenager, I went through all the stages: anger, depression, denial… I even dug up the grave that was our relationship a few times, left only with twice the dirt I had beforehand. I have learned to rationalize and process those emotions of losing someone who hasn’t passed. He is the center of much of my writing and I hold on to really fond memories of when he was still himself, but as far as our relationship, it hasn’t moved since I was a young girl. It took me a long time to become okay with the idea that you can still grieve the living.
It is particularly hard to heal from those feelings of brokenness and loss when they are still living a life, but without you. You may follow your person on social media, watching them make friends and live new experiences. Or you may run into them at a coffee shop, feeling like you’ve seen a ghost. I struggle to go to my brother’s high school football games, for fear of seeing my dad supporting him in the stands. It is utter heartbreak each time you’re reminded of their existence, that they are still on the same side of the veil as you. How do you deal with the haunting? While I don’t feel the least bit entitled to give advice on such a complex topic, I do know how I got to a less unbearable point in my life. I personally had to let go of a lot of bitterness I held towards my dad, and instead focus all of that energy on choosing myself. I chose to remove him from my life because it was best for my health and safety.
Why is that person dead to you? It takes relentless reminding yourself of whatever that reason may be. I also needed to come to terms with the fact that there were a lot of things I loved about him. I romanticize my dad’s tortures in so many ways. I find fascination in the music he showed me, such as Alice in Chains. I can still turn on the songs I heard over and over in my childhood and hear him speaking through them. I buy all the books that used to sit on our old bookshelf when I was young and not able to touch them. My dad loved Van Gogh, and through reading Irving Stone’s “Lust for Life”, I can understand how he has intertwined himself with Van Gogh, being misunderstood and miserable.
I don’t have anything profound or life-changing to say about this, because I don’t know what the actual answer is. It is a shitty place to be, and I am not even certain there is a true answer. I do know that I have been taking flowers to mine and my dad’s grave for a long time, and it doesn’t hurt as much. When I hear him through my music or see things that remind me of him, I pay my respects to his mind and spirit - and hug myself a little tighter.
Strike Out,
Writer: Hanna Bradford
Editor: Jane Dodge
Graphic: Marley Hillman
Chattanooga