A letter to … my father, who has just killed himself .

A letter to … my father, who has just killed himself | Life and style | The Guardian:
"It’s Sunday, 4.50pm. In 10 minutes you will be calling. For at least 13 years you have always called me at 5pm on a Sunday, on the dot. I’m thinking about what we will discuss. Today we will talk about Brexit (you will be appalled and disbelieving), maybe the football, your holiday to Spain which starts tomorrow. You were recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s. It’s been a shock for you. You feel out of control. You are scared for the future. I’ll ask you how you are. You’ll say, “Pretty dreadful, thanks,” and laugh.

Three days ago, you killed yourself. This is going to be a difficult part of our conversation. How am I going to raise this touchy subject that has come up between us? Deep breath. Let’s tackle this head on. What on earth have you been up to, Dad? What have you done? Do you understand what you have put us through? Your partner hadn’t heard from you for 24 hours. We called you. No reply. Living in the south-west of France, we couldn’t pop round. We called the local police. Could they check? Of course, they said. Thirty minutes later, the mobile rings. We have found him, I’m sorry, it’s bad news, outside the house, he’s dead.

You’ve left me numb. Yet, strangely, I also feel a mixture of anger and sadness with an emptiness in my stomach. Anger that you have taken your life in such a brutal, horrible, catastrophic way. Anger that you have been so selfish and left us with so many questions and so much doubt. Sadness that you felt so alone, so isolated, so desperate that you could think of nothing than to take your life. And the emptiness that you have gone from your family’s life for ever.

I can’t help imagining your final moments. All of them are haunting. All these images come to my mind during the day and night. Was it at least quick? Were you crying or were you cool and collected? I keep asking why. What were you thinking? Why didn’t you call?

Your mother died when you were 14. You said to me that at that time you had never felt so alone, so vulnerable, sitting in your kitchen at home. You said that you resolved never to feel like that again and that making money was your way of protecting yourself.

Then, 59 years later, you must have felt yourself alone and vulnerable again. Only you had money, but money isn’t the most important thing in life; it’s family, friends, a connection to the world and money wasn’t enough to keep you safe in the end. You weren’t alone, Dad, and you not realising that makes me feel cross. Now you’ve left us vulnerable and confused. I don’t want you to go like this. I don’t think you do either. I’m sure this was an impulsive act in the heat of the moment and you would have regretted it straight away. I expect you will be telling me when you call that yes, it was a bit silly, sorry about that. Won’t happen again.

It’s 5pm now. The phone hasn’t rung. It’s the first time in 13 years. It really is true then, you’ve gone. I can’t talk to you about Brexit, footie, your hols. I can’t ask you why and give you a big old ear-bashing for being so bloody stupid. You can’t tell me it won’t happen again. Because I realise now that it already has and there is no going back. I guess I knew the phone wouldn’t ring. So today, at 5pm, we have lit a candle and drunk a bottle of fizz in your memory. I have no doubt you would have approved.

I really hope, Dad, that out of the trauma of your passing you have found peace. I expect we will eventually come to terms with this and learn to live with it. I’m not sure I forgive you yet but I’ll work on it. Five o’clock on a Sunday will never be the same again. I guess wherever I am on that day and at that time I’ll be thinking of you. My greatest wish is that wherever you may be now, you understand that we loved you very much and we really, really didn’t want you to go just yet.

Much love,

Mark"

'via Blog this'