When I was twelve my bumpa (grandpa), my mammy (grandma), and my mother sat me down on the couch and started speaking to me in the past tense. "Your father loved you very much, you know that, right?" Why were they saying lovED? Why are they telling me this, of course I knew he loved me, I was his little girl.
Then, after a few more words, it sank in.
My dad was dead. He was never coming home. I would never see him again and loved was now the correct way to talk about him. He was now in the past tense, just like his love for me.
This conversation took place six years ago.
Many friends and family members will try to relate to you and say that they know how you feel or they understand, but they don't. Everyone goes through tragedies differently because everyone is at a different stage in their life. Due to this tragedy there are a few things I have learned not to say to anyone who is coping with a loss.
"I know how you feel"
"I know what you're going through"
"It will be okay."
"You'll get through it."
You don't know.
People will tell you that it's going to get easier, it'll be okay, and you'll get through it. But they don't know. It doesn't get easier. It won't be okay. You will never get through it. These comforting words that you so often hear after any death are all suddenly lies. Sure, it does become more bearable each day, but it never gets easier. Living your life without one of your parents, the people that are never supposed to leave you, doesn't get easier over time.
You don't know what it's like to live one third of your life without your dad. To know that he won't be in any photos with you for the rest of your life. You don't how hard it is to graduate high school and head off to college without giving him a hug. You'll never know what it's like to realize that one day you have to walk down the aisle of your wedding alone. You won't have to explain to your kids why they don't have a grandpa. So no, don't say that you know, because you don't.
"He'll always be with you."
"He's in your heart."
"His spirit stays with you wherever you go."
No. He's not with me.
You get to say that because at the end of the day, you're most likely going to either see or talk to your dad. He's physically there with you. You get the pleasure of hugging him when you go home for Thanksgiving. You get to see his smile on Christmas morning. You get to hear his laugh and know that when things get rough he's only a phone call away. These phrases about his spirit and being in your heart are not comforting to say to anyone who has just lost somebody. It's just a reminder that they're no longer a part of the physical world, just a memory, a spirit, a thought. You can only hold onto memories for so long. After a while there's no recollection of their voice and it's hard to even picture what they look like without actually seeing a photo. Yeah, sure, his memory will always be with me; but that's it. He's gone. Some days I sit back and it hits me like a wrecking ball; I will never actually see, hear, speak to, or touch my father again and that's just a hard thing to fathom when you're only twelve years old. All that these people are trying to do is comfort and say something to fill the silence, but these phrases are ones that are better left unsaid.
"I'm always here for you."
"You can reach out to me whenever you need me."
"I'm only a phone call away."
You're not.
Again, another thing that is so often said is that someone will always be there for you. It's a lie. They're only statements made in that moment when people don't know what else to say. For a short while, it's true. Everyone in class will push the tables together so that they're all eating lunch with you, or you get first dibs on the comfiest chair in the reading corner; but that only lasts for a week or so. When you're in a small school, have been going to class with the same 22 people for eight years, and they all know what has happened, these phrases are extremely believable. They were even more believable when most of my class showed up to the wake at the funeral home on a school night and I overheard their parents telling my mother, "they would have walked here if we didn't drive them." It was great having as much support as I did for the first week I was back in school, but then it faded away. Classmates, teachers, and faculty quickly went back to their normal lives and I was angry about it at first. I had to realize that this tragedy didn't happen to them. They weren't going home after school to only their mom and brother. They were being picked up by their dad's and eating dinner with them and saying goodnight to them. But I couldn't be angry about that. It wasn't their fault that he was gone. What I could be angry about was that everyone went back on what they had said before. They were no longer there for me. They didn't want to listen to another story about my dad or hear me crying in the bathroom because I had a vivid flashback of him. Suddenly my sadness, tears, and anger were looked at as an excuse to get out of class instead of genuinely seen as a repercussion of my father's death. It may sound like a nice thing to say to someone who is coping, but just don't say it because odds are within the next few weeks it won't be true anymore.
"He's in a better place now."
"He's not suffering anymore."
Yeah, okay. I get that.
But it certainly doesn't make it any easier. This will eat at a person for years. What could I have done to make their life better? Why was I not good enough or important enough to make them stay? There will never be an answer. For some people, there is no cure. My dad suffered from a Traumatic Brain Injury. It wasn't his fault, it wasn't my fault, nor my mom's or brother's. There is still no cure for TBI and there probably never will be until people can start replacing brains. It's taken me six years to realize that his suicide was actually better for him than the immense pain he was experiencing everyday. It's taken me six years to realize that it is not my fault he is dead. It's taken me six years to understand that there is nothing I could have done to help him. These realizations only come with time. They're not something that other people can tell you about, they can't be made for you. It's another step towards closure when you realize that what you did do for them while they were alive greatly outweighs the things that you couldn't do for them.
Although it has been six years since his passing, nothing gets easier. Each Thanksgiving and Christmas there is still pain and anger. Every birthday and special event brings up more memories and tears. But there is a difference between the pain, anger, and tears of this year versus those of six years ago. These tears may now be followed by laughter, the pain followed by a smile, the anger may only be for a second and then there is love again. The difference is that I can now celebrate his life and not mourn his death. I can now remember all of the great memories, the travels, and the holidays together without being overcome with sadness. I've grown from what others have said to me regarding his death and now I can use my own experiences to see what other people are dealing with, not understand. I can't understand what they're going through. I can certainly relate, but sympathy and empathy are two very different things. So please, the next time you encounter someone who is dealing with a loss choose your words wisely and offer condolences, but never use the above phrases (or anything similar) because you may be doing more damage than you think even when you have the best intentions.
