Decide You Can Do It One More Day

Eighteen years ago today my Daddy lived his last full day.

Is it odd that a sixty-four year old woman refers to her father as daddy? I am, after all, not a Southern Belle. I was, for many years, emotionally and physically estranged from him. Be that as it may, I refer to him as my father but in my heart-voice he is always my Daddy.

It's his name of habit. It's the name with which I greeted him on good days, the person for whom I wrapped presents, and the presence from which I fled when practicing invisibility no longer was sufficient.

I dread this day, this anniversary of the (unbeknownst to me) last day that I had a living father. Writing about it seems to help; I can take the thoughts roiling through my head and set them on paper so they cane breathe. So that I can think again. So that I can function. So that I can choose life another day instead of settling my spirit in a chair next to him and pulling the blanket of bad decisions over me until all the breath in my body just stops trying.

This year, as in other years since that Last Day, I wonder what went through his mind. Was it planned? Or was it a spur of the moment decision that had him pick up his father's rifle and take his life at the open closet door in front of his wife?

Did the toasted almond fudge ice cream they shared taste extra sweet to him as he ate it less than an hour before he pulled the trigger?

Did he watch a last sunrise that morning? A last sunset that night?

Had he thought about leaving letters for his sister? His five children? His wife? Did he consider and then decide to carry on the tradition of not needing to explain his actions to anyone, ever- even to this last final act?

This year is different from other years as I feel despair and hopelessness rolling through the streets. Seeping into every week, day, hour, minute, moment.

Families are shattered by acted-on ideology, daily the dread of 'what now?' accompanies us as we open our eyes in the morning, and treasured relationships are gasping for their last breath.

How many people, I wonder, are losing hope today?

When the things that you thought would be a constant in your life are removed it's all too easy to loosen your grasp on security, safety, meaning; on life.

I am still learning about how fortunate I've been, regardless of the physical, emotional, and mental struggles. Regardless of the Complex Trauma that I'm working through: I have been fortunate.

Through no effort of my own I have been spared the fight to love and marry the person of my choice. Spared the scorn of living as my authentic self. Spared the discrimination of skin color. Spared the distrust of nationality.

It's only recently, as I work to disengage myself from the previously-unquestioned teachings of conservative evangelical teaching that I've realized that, too, was unearned armor that attacked as much as it protected me. That loss, not of faith -which remains with me- but of doctrine; that loss also leaves me shaken but determined to do the work.

Keep Hoping

During the pandemic we baked bread. Not only as food, but as reassurance. That buttery yeast-y smell, the warmth. The self-reliance when it seemed as if isolation would last forever. Bread was hope.

Right now I'm seeing the many conversations about first-time gardening. Gardens are hope. Planting a dry seed and watching life happen. Nurturing. Growing sustenance. Deferred gratification. Satisfaction with your actions. Sharing with others. Planting is hope.

People wandering emotionally are finding purpose through action. Deciding each day to reach out within their community. Locally, digitally, through donations of time, money, necessary things, wisdom, knowledge, experience. These decisions, these actions, will buoy us in the surging tide of uncertainty. They will create resiliency through common purpose and community. Community is hope.

Hope is a building block of faith. The book of Hebrews states; "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Hope is sprinkling yeast on warm water and anticipating bread. Hope is dropping a seed in soil and consigning it to flourish in the hidden places. Hope is reaching out a hand with the expectation it will be grasped.

Hope is writing this with the trust it will touch a heart, awake compassion, and lead to the determination to continue another day.

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Last year:

Two years ago:

Three years ago:

Four years ago:

If you have thoughts of self-harm reach out. If it’s too hard to reach out to family or friends contact @NationalSuicidePreventionLifeline at 1–800–273–8355. Or text to 741741 in the US and Canada (85258 in the UK and 50808 in Ireland) and communicate without speaking out loud.

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