[This post is probably going to be one of my most challenging posts I will ever come across. I find this forum ‘easy’ to be able to reflect others’ journeys and help shed light in their dark times, but I’m struggling to find the light in my current situation. So, unlike my other posts, this post will only include the first entry portion. If you follow me on any form of social media, you most likely have seen my posts/videos talking about the passing of my Dad the other day. You’ve probably also seen how complicated our relationship has been over the last couple decades. We had a great childhood. An amazing one. Our parents did everything in their power to give us the best memories and opportunities that they could while growing up. I get to savor those memories for the rest of my life and I’m so thankful to the both of them for that.] Dear Diary,
My dad was a complicated man to say the least. He led a life of alcoholism, narcissism, abuse, manipulation, and infidelity. In our younger days, he did a great job of concealing his ways and ensuring he masked who he really was. He was the ‘fun’ dad. He was the social butterfly of the group. He projected how ‘happy’ we all were at any event we went to, and he made sure everyone knew we ‘loved’ being a family.
As the years went on, it seemed as if he didn’t care if he was seen for who he really was.
Blame it on the benders or the unhappiness he had in his life if you want. I’m pretty sure I’ve blamed it on everything and anything I could think of throughout my life. But he didn’t care.
He no longer cared to be the ‘family man’ he always put out there. He no longer cared to make his wife and kids laugh or feel loved. He no longer filtered his thoughts and opinions on how unhappy we all made him. His unhappiness became our fault as he filled up another glass of vodka and stormed into his den. We were the mean ones, the abusive ones, the ones that made his life so dull. So low. We were the reason he was no longer happy. We were wasting his time with our family traditions, sports schedules, school schedules and events.
Our family was a chore to him.
As time went on, we grew up. We became independent and learned how wrong his wrongs were. We learned how one was supposed to love. We learned how one was supposed to be loved. We learned how one was supposed to respect, communicate, support, and be present. As we grew older, we all took our own paths on how to ‘live’ with having this dad as our dad in our lives.
As an adult, I can only speak for my path. I can only speak about my relationship with my dad.
My hurt, my loss, my anger, my abandonment.
There came a day when I no longer looked at my dad as a parent. Moreso as a person I was connected to in a way I didn’t want to be connected to. It was always confusing. I’ve struggled with the back and forth of ‘I love my dad’ and ‘I hate this man’. I struggled with the sober moments he had. When he had the clarity, I always wished he had every day. The moments he remembered I was still his kid. The moments he was able to tell me he was proud of me. Proud of the adult I became and proud of the family I started. Proud of the mom I became.
But as the clarity came, so did the darkness. They were perfectly paired together like Champagne and Brie or Cabernet and sharped Cheddar.
Perfectly paired.
The darkness brought anger. It brought so much rage.
With that rage came ugliness.
Hurt.
Devastation.
A lack of care of the path of destruction he left.
The path of destruction that ruined me at times. Put me into such a dark hole that I struggled to get out of. The destruction that sucked you dry of life, laughter, and love.
I always felt like I was chosen last. This could be the furthest from the truth, but it’s how he made me feel every single time. I moved away from home over 10 years ago and not once did he visit. After multiple invites and offers, never once. I was able to take a back seat and watch all the vacations and visits he had with others and hope and pray one day it was my turn. But why?
Why did I long for my dad to want to visit. This monster that I hated so much at times. This guy that knew how to derail my entire life. Until one day, I realized it wasn’t him that I wanted to visit. It was the desire to be chosen as a kid he loved. Of course, as fast as that desire appeared, it faded just as fast once the next round of rage calls and texts flooded in.
To no fault of anyone else but myself, I felt as if I needed to protect my loved ones around me when I could. Protect them from any hurt he could cause –even though that was impossible.
That feeling rose to the top when my dad had one of his drunken accidents where he would go on his typical bender and malnourish himself to a point of being unable to walk. He called an ambulance on himself after he woke up at the bottom of the stairs in a pool of blood not knowing how long he had been out. They rushed him in because he was in the early stages of organ failure and sepsis and could no longer walk.
Weeks in the hospital going through stabilization and detoxification turned into months in a skilled nursing facility trying to rehabilitate and learn how to walk again. Throughout those months, I chose to act on the Power of Attorney he gave me and my siblings. I chose to take over his ‘life’ while he was away. I chose to figure out why his finances were so far gone. I needed to figure out how he got himself into such a hole of debt to include foreclosure. I worked countless hours, days, weeks, and months trying to get him back on track while he focused on his mental and physical health. I hated him during those months. I hated him for letting his life spiral so bad and me feeling the need to clean up his mess. Once again.
But I loved him too. I loved the ‘clarity’. It’s been years since I heard him tell me he was proud of me. Before then, I couldn’t remember the last time he said thank you for anything. I advocated for him as hard as I could while the hospitals and skilled nursing facilities overdosed him on multiple types of sedative medications. Valium, Xanax, Ativan, Diazepam. You name it, they had him on it. Then add on the pain medications they handed out like candy.
Why did it take all of those medications to get him to tell me thank you? To get him to tell me he was proud of me. Hearing those words after that long nearly broke me. But in the best way possible.
Fast forward a few months, he decides to check himself out of the apartment we had him settled in.
He missed his independence.
He missed the bottle.
That was four months ago.
Four months.
Filled with guilt. I think of all the things I could’ve done to stop him. I feel like I could’ve prevented this outcome. If I pushed a little harder. If I was a little tougher on him. Deep down I know I couldn’t have changed this outcome…
But what if I could?
In that moment, I was tired. I was tired and drained trying to organize his life and support him. I wasn’t who I needed to be for my husband or for my daughter. I needed to pull away in that moment. I needed to put up boundaries. So I gave him the ultimatums that he blew right through.
We knew there was no changing his ways. As much as we tried though, we still checked in. We still made sure he was active on his email, bank accounts, phone texts/calls. As soon as he became radio silent, we called in welfare checks. We tried to convince him to go back to the hospital when he claimed he had been sick for 8 days with the flu (which normally meant he was on one of his benders). Every welfare check we called; he was just ‘sick’.
Until he wasn’t.
And just like that… he’s gone. I’m instantly filled with so many different emotions and I’m unsure how to process them all.
I’m devastated.
Getting that phone call and hearing her tell me he’s dead. My world froze in that moment. Her voice got quieter and quieter like I was getting further and further away. But I wasn’t moving. I wanted to run. I needed to run. Fight or flight mode kicked in and I was trying to do both at the same time. I never expected to be this sad. I never expected this moment to be so debilitating.
I’m shocked.
Paralyzed in shock and inability to accept the information I was given.
I’m angry.
Angry that he had so many opportunities to get healthy and to get back on the right track. To right his wrongs. But he continued to choose the bottle. He was sick.
Too sick to get healthy.
I’m regretful.
Filled with guilt.
Sad.
I never wish this upon anyone. Having to fill out the cremation paperwork and get his affairs in order is a daunting process. I had immediate flashbacks to a year ago when I organized his affairs last time. I felt like I had to jump into action. I’m unsure why I felt responsible for it, but that’s exactly how I felt.
Responsible.
I felt like I had to be the one to sign those cremation papers. I felt like I had to be the one to pick out the box he was going to be cremated in. I felt like I had to be the one to identify his body. I felt like I needed to protect everyone else from what I could. Even if it’s detrimental to my own health and healing.
I feel responsible. Love, Me
Rest in peace Dad.
https://www.toledocremation.com/obituaries/Lawrence-Matt-Lohr?obId=28134285#/obituaryInfo
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