Remembering My Father

This week marked the 40th anniversary of my father's death. Forty years. That's such a long time.

The anniversary of his death doesn't hold any real sadness for me anymore. His death story is just another part of my life story. He's been gone for much more than half my life now. Still, I choose to remember and mark the day he died. For many years I did feel sad. And angry. And abandoned. But time has passed and I've come to terms with his decision to end his own life.

For so many years it seemed that my father's suicide was the only thing any of us really remembered about him. But with time and healing I've realized that his death didn't define him. Nor did his addictions. At his core, he was a good person. He suffered from mental illness and addiction at a time when our culture knew even less about how to deal with those issues than we do now.

I don't claim to understand what he did. I only know I've come to terms with it. He missed so much by opting out early. Most of my significant life events have occurred without him. My husband and children never got to know him. He wasn't present for any of my graduation ceremonies. He never got to see the woman I've become. I like to think he'd be proud.

These days memories of my father come in snippets. Moments in time sparked by one thing or another. The man I see in photographs reminds me of the man he was, although my own memory banks are fairly sparse. Because of the circumstances of his death, for many years I looked for him in a crowd. Although I knew he was dead, my soul longed to see him one more time; to say goodbye. It was unfair of him to say goodbye to me without giving me the chance to do the same. But then there are a lot of things about suicide that are unfair.

The day my father died, he dropped me off at school and before I got out of the car he said he loved me. He didn't say that often so I thought it was odd, but in retrospect I realize he was saying goodbye. He had carefully planned what he was going to do once he got home. I've grown to appreciate his last words to me. And I've grown to believe them. I didn't always.

A few years ago I was given a precious gift in saying goodbye to a friend's father the day before he died. Although he was drifting in and out of lucidity, at the moment of our goodbye he held my hand strongly, spoke clearly, and was immensely present. His words were soothing. He wasn't my father but he allowed me to exchange the words my father and I might have said had things been different. My soul calmed after that experience. I never looked for my father in a crowd again. I'd said goodbye.

Forgiveness came in stages. Through reoccurring dreams, my own maturity, and greater understanding of my father's addled mental state, I've come to forgive his actions. I wish he'd gotten help. I wish he'd made different choices. But I forgive the pain he caused. I don't believe he meant to hurt us.

My father is so much more than his death, though. I look at photographs of him as a baby, a teenager, and a young man and realize that he had a full and happy life before the agony of mental illness and addiction overtook him. He was a talented musician. He loved to celebrate everything. He was charming and engaging and in early photos there is a sparkle of joy. I see glimpses of him in myself and my children, and in my siblings, niece and nephews. His DNA is a part of us. Who he was before his tragic demise influences each of us in some small way.

Jimmy Charles Martin

Something went wrong in my father's life. When and how, I don't know. But something took his life long before he did.

I wish things had been different for him. I wish he'd been able to get help. I wish he'd known that his life was worth living. I wish he had lived a long, full life. I wish he'd known that he mattered.

Because, in this world, everyone matters.