Today I pause and remember a man no longer with us – my father.
Today is Dad’s 46th birthday, but sadly, he isn’t here for it. Eleven years ago, he succumbed to the black dog and took his own life.
I miss my Dad every day, despite the passage of time. There are little moments where I catch myself out: the smell of a meat pie and sauce, or seeing a newspaper with a half-completed crossword, or a dog-eared pulp novel thrown on a passenger seat, and so many other things. I can’t ever really relegate my Dad to being a relic, because even 11 years later, there are things too fresh and a little raw, that stop me consigning him to the memory bank.
As a new father myself, my hatred for my father’s elected demise has grown more intense. Yes, I have heard all the reasons and explanations about what drives someone to suicide and I get the chemical imbalance side of it all. But, when all is said and done, there had to be a moment where he realised he’d be leaving his kids (I know there was, he wrote a note) and chose to ignore that enough to inflict his own death on himself. That decision – and it was an active, conscious decision – is why I hate him so.
He would have been a good Poppy though (I know he’d have taken that moniker, after his own father who Dad lost when he was 24). He was much more traditionally masculine than I am so he’d add that element. He was smart with car engines and a great country footy player, too. He’d be a good grandfather and Leo is the poorer for not having him. Actually, not the poorer, just different. I’m not sure you can be poorer for never having had something, as opposed to having it and losing it.
I look at my boy and the fun he has with his three remaining grandparents and I curse my father for his choice.
Despite these feelings, I do wish my Dad a Happy Birthday and I again ask him to watch over my family and me and keep us safe from the frailty of the human mind. That much he owes us.
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