Dear friends, acquaintances, and strangers I haven't met yet,
I'm a 19-year-old currently in college from Mansfield, Massachusetts. When you see me, I might look happy. I will make a few sarcastic remarks and throw in a hug here and there. I will smile ear to ear and tell you something funny that happened to me the other day. You'll probably think I'm the most bubbly girl you've ever met, and that maybe I talk a bit too much. When we say goodbye, I'll assure you it was great to see you, wonderful to meet you, and that I'm "just fine." What nobody has thought to themselves is that the second I walk away, I have wanted to cry at least once that day.
Have we ever been mid-conversation, and I suddenly hesitate to speak, or stare off in a daze? Have you noticed that I keep talking about you, because I don't want you to ask about me? Those who know me can recall the past three years: I watched my father battle brain cancer, and ultimately lose to it on Dec. 31, 2014. People know that. People embraced me, and my teachers extended assignment deadlines, but no one truly knows how this has affected me. I never knew it would change how I behave around others and compose myself. Everyone has said "you're so strong," but no one hears the battles in my head every day. Those of you who have lost someone might be able to relate, but I have finally decided that I must say what the Facebook posts and Hallmark cards do not.
I am not the happy-go-lucky teenager I perhaps once was. In this letter of sorts, I would like to extend an apology to my friends. I am sorry for not answering every text and for disappearing from social gatherings. I can't stick to plans made a week in advance, because the day of, I may not feel like moving at all. That movie you wanted to see? My dad would have loved it. That party you want to drink at? My dad wouldn't be proud of me. These hesitations have consumed my thoughts ever since he passed away. I know people ask where I am, and "what happened to me," and you can tell them that I am sad. Why do I "only hang out with, like, those three people?" They were with me the night my dad died. I'm sorry I'm not fun anymore and am preventing us from making memories together. I am stagnant by a force I cannot even name.
To those who will meet me, I am sorry that when I say "my parents" in a present tense, I stop and stiffen. When students at school ask about my dad, I don't know how to speak to them. I never expected my father's death to affect my social skills. I don't want pity, because this is not a cry for attention. People think I'm anti-social at college, but that's simply not it. The kids who stay a bit quiet and look a bit haunted know how to function and speak. We want so desperately to start and carry a conversation, but we don't want you to ask "why are you so quiet?" and look shocked when we crack a joke in class. That song you just played in the car? My dad used to play it aloud in the house while we cleaned and danced with us. I'm sorry I couldn't sing along.
So... what is this? Why am I pouring my heart out to some readers who may not even care—who may not even relate? If this resonates with just one person, I will not feel the guilt I feel every day I have fun without my dad. Does anyone else connect everyday events and objects and sounds to a loved one who has passed away? Has anyone else lost the wings they once had as a social butterfly? Deciding to write this and share it was one of the most awful decisions to make, but I once read that "tears are words that need to be written" by Paul Coelho. So, if anyone decides to read this, know that it wasn't easy, and that it may become a regret. But right now, in this moment, I feel a peace that's similar to breathing in fresh, cool air. I haven't felt anything like it in a over a year. Thank you to those who hug me and ask how my family is, and I'm sorry to those who will not understand. I have lost my dad, but I know he would want me to be happy. I hope being honest is a step towards just that.
Best regards,
a daughter in mourning
