I don’t know what to say this year so please bear with me for what I’m sure is about to be a loosely edited ramble.
I’ve been dealing with mental health struggles, both my own and others, for so long now that I never imagined that it could touch my life even more intimately than it already had. Yet, here we are. It’s been just over four months since my father made the decision to end his struggle with depression.
I feel lost.
I feel sad.
Sometimes I just want to scream from all the pain and grief I’m holding onto.
I want to smash things.
I cry all the time.
I can’t figure out the balance between sharing his struggles and his story while simultaneously protecting it, and (for someone who has an almost pathological need to share her feelings) I feel like I could explode from everything I’m holding inside.
My heart breaks every day.
It breaks for what was and what could have been.
It breaks for my dad, for myself, for my sister, for my stepmother, for my mother, for his siblings… the list never ends.
Our lives will never be the same.
We are left with so many questions that will never be answered.
Why did you do this?
Is there anything we could have done to save you?
What did we miss?
And I don’t know what to do.
I don’t want my father’s struggles and his death to be in vain.
I want to give it meaning.
I want to save others from their mental health struggles.
I want to save families from being left with the horrible grief that accompanies suicide.
I just don’t know how to do it.
And I fucking hate myself for it.
But hey, let’s talk.