My Dad, Part VI

We are just a few days away from Christmas, and I have largely felt none of the usual joy. I know I am allowed to, I know my dad would want me to, and I know my support system all wants me to as well. I just don’t. I know I am not alone in this struggle. Countless people I know, personally and professionally, are dealing with a lot right now. From employment or financial woes, seeing social injustices being played out with no oversight on the nightly news, or dealing with their own feelings around the holidays or loss. Hell, I know not everyone feels as strongly connected to the holidays as I do in general. I am the first to decorate, I am the first to bust out Christmas attire, and I have a Christmas-themed tattoo on me 24/7/365. But none of that festiveness, none of my normal traditions around this time of year, has made me immune to the impact of grief.

For all of us who feel a lack of Christmas cheer, there is grief at play. For me, it is yet another “first” without my dad. I am including him in the day, still in my own way, and he will not be overlooked, nor will he be forgotten in our family gathering. But his physical absence will be palpable. It has been for the nearly five months since he died. I talked before about how grief sneaks in at unexpected moments, but I think it is also important to acknowledge just how deeply grief can plant itself. To do that, I probably need to explain the absence of sharing for nearly four months. I had an idea for a fictional book that came as a result of grieving my dad. That idea kept getting stronger and stronger, and a few weeks after I last wrote about my dad, I began sketching out some ideas around it. The early pages of that were very connected to my own grief. If it ever sees the light of day, I suspect that may be obvious. I dabbled with working on that project and wound up writing around 15,000 words before I participated in a program called Nov/Nov, where people attempt to write their novels in the month of November. My goal had been to start November with 25,000 words written, crank out the program’s goal of 50,000 words written in November, and wrap up around the 75k mark. In the month of November, I prioritized writing and was able to produce over 54,000 words, then in early December wrapped up the project at just over 80,000 words. That took up most of my creative bandwidth, but was also rewarding on multiple levels, and helped me approach my grief in a way that was a little more gentle on me than it had been before.

I did not write every day, but I wrote most days. I took time off for a trip to Disneyland for my birthday, hoping that getting to be there on my birthday and with all the Christmas decor would bring some of the joy to the surface. It was a lovely trip, and I had a great time. But it did not “fix” me. I felt the grief about my dad being gone every day of that trip. Whether it would have been sharing a picture with him, or a video, or even just telling him about a song from a show or a parade that I saw. My grief of missing him was compounded by the grief I had of watching people in my country being harmed in multiple ways. Watching injustices occur, and being on the frontlines in terms of helping others process and deal with their own grief. I have felt powerless for most of the year, between the social issues and being unable to do anything for my dad. As they lit the facade of “It’s A Small World,” the announcer says, “We invite you to join us in wishing for peace on Earth.” I felt my eyes immediately sting and tears begin to form because I don’t even feel a sense of peace in my own country, watching the trauma and harm being played out day after day.

This time of year has always been about family and a feeling of peace to me. This year, both of those have loss connected to them. So despite going through the motions, despite an amazing trip, and despite every effort to capture the Christmas Spirit the way I have for so long, it feels a little empty, hollowed out the way I have at times felt emotionally. Nothing is going to change that, but I think it is important to acknowledge that. Both for other people who may be struggling with their own grief, to know this is part of it, but also because we can’t avoid grief. The longer we push it away or attempt to run from it, the stronger it becomes until it reaches an overwhelming point, and we have no choice but to deal with it, no matter where we are or what we have going on. So, setting low expectations for this Christmas, knowing it will probably not feel “right” and understanding I may not feel the joy, is okay. Sure, I would prefer to feel the joy. But I would also prefer to have my dad back. The tears don’t happen as much now, and the pain is not as acute, but the hole in the atmosphere of my existence is there. In time, maybe it will heal and feel repaired. It is not a dangerous thing, and it is not causing harm to anyone, unless that person needs me to have the happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny-fucking Kaye, and then they will be in for a bad time.

So, if you find yourself grieving, feeling a little less cheery or joyful this Christmas, please know you are not alone. Hell, if you’re seeing this and it is nowhere near Christmas, but you are still feeling empty and somehow simultaneously filled with grief, you are also not alone. I wish I could tell you when it lets up, or when you feel fully normal, but as Kendrick says, “everybody grieves different.” We all go at our own pace, we all struggle in our own ways with our own things. Some days it is barely perceptible, and other days it is like the mix is dialed with dead center between your ears. My wish for you, and for everyone this Christmas, and in the future, is indeed for peace on Earth. For us to love one another and care deeply enough that we do not let harm be delivered to our neighbors, whether the neighbors live next door or on another continent.