Waiting to Exhale

“My mom’s calling me, hold on.” I tell my boyfriend while spending yet another day over at his house.
It’s not that her voice is shaky or scared, but something’s definitely wrong. She speaks quickly, harshly, firmly, trying to figure out a way to get me home as quickly as possible. She told me she’s on her way and she’ll be here in a few. She hangs up, and as a surprise to myself as well, I start crying. It’s one of those cries that doesn’t end when it starts. It goes on and on.
I told him it better not be anything worth crying over, and he tells me that I should hope that it’s nothing. I put on my shoes and run out the door.
She’s sitting up straighter than usual. She asks me how my day is, trying to keep a normal conversation going. I don’t ask her what’s wrong, because our house is just three stoplights away.
When we get home we both sit down on the chairs in front of the kitchen. She grabs my hands, tightly, warmly, scarily and full of dread. She told me that she wanted to tell me this before anything got posted on social media, so my sister and I could find out from her.
Taking a deep breath of air, she tells me that my father has committed suicide.
I’m in shock. Without any movement at all, tears roll down my eyes. With my mom crying beside me, I block out my dogs jumping on my knees without any understanding of their surroundings. I have questions, concerns, but I know the moment’s not right. I didn’t know what was right. Do I hug her, or go to my phone, or tell her everything’s going to be okay?

The next half an hour was a blur. My mom’s friends came over, and my sister came home with a family friend. I didn’t think she knew, but when she walked through the door she got down on her knees. Sobbing, she screamed “No. No. This can’t be happening, I can’t. I can’t!” I had run out of tears by then. I didn’t know what any of us were supposed to do. Although, in our household, no one had ever thought about what we were really supposed to do…
***
All she was trying to do was to unload the dishwasher, after my father told her to, of course. He didn’t understand, he couldn’t control himself. Understandable. Well, now it was understandable. In a flash, my sister and I were filling out police forms to tell them what had happened that night. He was funny. The cop was playing with out dogs. It felt good to have a laugh after that night.
To this day, you can still notice the small whole in the wall from the water bottle being thrown at my sister.
***
They told us to wait here, in the room by the glass doors. We didn’t have our phones. The place smelled like a clinic, but that was expected from a psychiatric hospital. It seemed like forever, although it might’ve just been an hour and a few minutes. I wanted to see him, of course, until I saw him through the glass doors. He wasn’t okay. He didn’t feel sorry or guilty, he seemed insanely happy. He seemed seriously ill. I didn’t want to see him anymore.
***
I didn’t understand why they didn’t want to go. Of course, I didn’t want to go to my father’s funeral, but I wanted closure. And besides, everything was over now, so no harm no foul.
I had forgotten about his childhood, and hadn’t thought about it in a long long time, but when the rabbi told his life story, I knew it almost completely.
I didn’t write anything, even though my mom mentioned it. I didn’t know what i would even say about my dad. There’s not too many special moments I remembered too clearly, so I didn’t intend on saying anything at all. So many people did, though. Family friends I’ve known for years since my childhood. I never knew the effect my father had on their lives. I never thought about it. Then my sister went up to speak. My mom said she wouldn’t, but Lily did. She spoke well. I finally had the courage to go up there. I was half happy with myself. I froze in the middle of my speech, but besides that, I just spoke from my heart. I think it was okay. I think no one was even listening. I know I wasn’t.
***
Many weeks after the event I couldn’t stand my notebook. I didn’t even think about writing or singing. I was screwed up for a while, for less, though, than I expected. People came up to hug me in the halls of my school, my teachers tried to make my work easy, some students brought me things, and the news quickly spread around without me knowing. I didn’t care. I wasn’t flattered in the slightest. I love attention, don’t get me wrong, but this was just irritating. My friends didn’t know what to do and how to help. I kept on coming to my track meets because it was ‘a good distraction’, which the whole time I knew was false. My mom and my sister slept together for a few nights. They asked me if I wanted to, I didn’t. I didn’t want anything. I didn’t cry, or laugh, or work, or read or write or sing. I was just there, in the moment. I felt overly numb. I didn’t connect with anyone. I didn’t care. In fact, I stopped caring about everything. The biggest problems in my life suddenly felt so small. It felt good to be able to not care for anything or anyone for a while. Really good. It felt good to let go of my anger and pain that I’ve held in for so long. Everything was different then. I’m glad it wasn’t like that forever.

Then came therapy. Family therapy. Counseling sessions. I hated it. I’m usually able to express my feelings very freely, but not then. I didn’t know what to say, because I didn’t know what I felt. I wished everyone would leave me alone already. I didn’t want it then, and I probably still don’t. By that time I was starting to write again. Songs and stories, I mean. It’s always been fairly easy for me to write down everything I’m thinking, but the only thing my fingers could write was my dad. Every day I’d find a new picture in my photo album or recall a new memory of him. I had nothing else I could focus on. The reason I’m writing this story right now, is because nothing else comes to my mind. A few months ago I’m sure I could’ve written a fun little realistic fiction story, but not now. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to write the same stories I used to again, because nothing else comes to mind when I think about writing. I never talk about him with my friends, ever, but he never leaves my mind. That, I know will change, but I don’t know how soon. It’s like this constant reminder whenever somebody makes a funny joke, or when I once forgot my homework, and my friend asked me if my mom could bring it. I told her she was at work, and then she asked if my dad could. I haven’t even thought of that as an option, and I didn’t know exactly how I was supposed to respond to that. I feel like it shouldn’t be this difficult, I honestly don’t know why it is. I mean, it’s different for everybody, but I just feel left out. It’s not something you can just bring up casually when you want to talk, so there’s not really a time for me to express my feelings except for writing- so here we are. The person I’m really writing this for is for me, because I can’t keep it all inside. I know what my mom is going to say, that I can talk to her any time I want, but that’s different. I wish I had someone who knew everything about my life that could help me, because I don’t think these thoughts are ever leaving my mind. I think, each year, they’ll just get a little more faded. But to be completely honest, that’s what I’m scared for.

Forgetting him.