Grief never stops

I haven’t written about depression, suicide and dad’s death for a while (Previous posts include: He said everything will be better and The day mum threw all the plates in the kitchen). I haven’t needed it. Jamie and I have been travelling across Europe, Morocco and Turkey in our motorhome for the past 18 months. It’s been and still is a fantastic adventure. Happy and excited about our life, I didn't expect to feel sad. It was a short time, but it was such a shock that I felt compelled to put it in writing.

A few months back we were with some friends having dinner. We were having a wonderful evening; great home-made food, wine, chatter and banter until the wee hours of the morning! Yes, it did hurt when we woke up, whatever time that was... Hungover, we reminisced about the great fun we had until I, suddenly,broke into tears thinking about one significant moment. 

As the evening went on and the wine was flowing, our discussions went one way to another including fatherhood. Our friends had just become grandparents. Their only daughter had given birth recently to a little boy. Our friend’s wife, Suzanne said that that was it, Dave wouldn’t be the first man in his daughter’s life but, rather the third: First, her husband; Second, her son; Third, her dad (Dave). Dave told us how sad that was. It’d obviously hit him hard the first time when his daughter got married. This time around, she really had moved away from the nest and started her own family. A big event for any parent(s). I could sympathise and understand completely how hard it must be.

But, whether it was the affect of alcohol or something else, I felt this huge sadness mixed with envy  mounting. It was overwhelming. I wanted to yell and cry. Luckily it was all happening inside. My friends and Jamie didn’t know what was happening at all.

As I explained it all to Jamie, big tears kept rolling down my cheeks like a sobering child. I had wanted to be the daughter. I had wanted to have a mentally healthy dad who would feel the same when I’d have children. A dad who would have already felt second place after I married. A dad, not a godfather, who would have lead me down the field at our wedding. A dad who would have been proud of me. It was all mounting up. I couldn’t stop the tears. It was floods of them.

Poor Jamie, he just waited until it calmed down. It was too much. It felt like I couldn’t control this frenetic flow. It felt weird.  I am 35, crying like a toddler. I felt like I was too old to cry like this. Too old to have such feelings. It’s been enough years. Enough years to grieve, accept and be fine with not having had a dad for the most part of my life. It was scary as I hadn’t expected it at all. I had made peace with it all after having a much needed therapy before we went travelling. It had been a closure. 

These weren’t tears from depression though, just sadness. Grief never stops. Whether you’re 11, 25, 35, 60 or 80, it doesn’t stop. It evolves, expressing itself in different ways, in different situations. Hopefully, next time, I’ll be less scared and may be able to stop and breathe.