Memories Resurfacing

Just had an image after reading a post — an image of my dad in a hospital ward or psychiatric ward. Me and Mum went to visit him. I can’t remember how long for. I remember he was in a gown. We walked outside in the gardens.

I can’t remember how long we were there. I can’t remember how long he was in there. I don’t even know if he was at home before or after.

Maybe I will remember.

Maybe I won’t.

But it’s just dawned on me — this must have been an attempt on his life. That must have been why he was in there.

Did he have bandages on his wrists? Honestly, I can’t remember. But I think maybe he did. It’s blurry, but maybe. This is an attempt on his life I didn’t know about. Or maybe I did, and I just buried it. Shit. Where did that come from? How many more times did he try? How many more times did he think about it?

Another memory has slid in.

It’s just flowing now.

We were walking — me, Mum, Dad, and my 2-year-old brother. I remember a barn with hay. They were talking. Was he telling her this was where he tried to kill himself? Was this where he was planning to do it?

Something else was there. But it’s gone. Where’s it gone? Come back. I remember Mum telling someone — was it a therapist? My therapist? Her therapist? — that he said if she left him, he would kill himself.

And when they met, he was saying things like I can’t live without you. I know he had issues. When I did think about it growing up, it was like he was caught between two worlds. He was saying things to my mum — I overheard it. She told someone that he was trapped in a man’s body.

He was a crossdresser. She knew it. I knew it. I didn’t even know what that was back then. But I caught him. I walked in on him dressed up. He shouted at me to get out. I often wondered, growing up, if I was going to be like that too. Because he was.

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I wasn’t. The thoughts never crossed my mind. I vaguely remember putting on my mum’s shoes — like all kids do — but I felt odd. I thought of him. I used to wish for Santa to bring him back at Christmas. I felt sad when I saw men with beards. I thought of him. I wondered when I was getting a beard — did I look like him? Was I sick in the head like him? It worried me. Was I going to kill myself like he did? I had already said it in anger before, as a kid. Did I think this was normal behaviour? Did it shape things to come?

Have I Damaged My Kids?

Shit.

Has what’s gone on at home recently damaged our already damaged kids? Is it all my fault if they are? Shit. That hurts. That hurts deep. Have I damaged them over the years as I slipped away? Have I always been running from this? Have I always been looking over my shoulder all my life? Possibly.

Fear and Love

I see now — the love was real from you. You gave me all of you. I should have felt safe. I should have felt that I could have told you everything. But I didn’t. I was scared. Scared that one day, I’d lose the person I loved so much. Did I give you all of me?

With my hand on my heart, I would say both. Yes — in the way that I gave you everything I was capable of at that time. I always thought I never gave enough. Maybe I was holding some back without knowing it, out of fear. Fear of being completely destroyed.

And no — in the sense that I had so much more left to give. You never got all of me. You got occasional flashes. That was it. Love shouldn’t be fear. Love, in its purest form, is magical. And at times, I felt the magic with you — in moments. But most of the time, I was scared. Always feeling like I wasn’t enough, or doing enough. And I could feel it inside. I wanted more to give, but something was holding me back. It’s all starting to make some kind of sense now.

Writing It All Out

On another note — it hasn’t been a bad day. Actually, I guess you could say it’s been a positive day, because I’ve just been writing. Writing it all out. I can’t stop. I have so much to say, so much that’s ready to spill. I’ve been trying to process all of this and put it into blogs — not just ramblings here, but something structured, something meaningful. I also went to see my therapist today. It’s my space to just talk. Each week, I open up a little more. Last week, I laid it all bare. Told her everything.

She was almost in tears. We unlocked so many things as I broke down the events leading to Monday. A short build-up to it all. At the end of the session, she said:

“I think I met the real Tony today. Thank you.”

She told me to write everything that comes to me — good, bad, ugly. I was already writing all the negative aspects of our troubles. Things I felt but couldn’t say. The feelings inside. How I saw things. Looking back — not a healthy thing, I guess. But now, I’ve started, and I just can’t stop. The more I write, the more unlocks.

The more things start to make sense. That’s when I decided — I need to do a blog. I’ve seen them in movies. They always get responses. Maybe people would relate. Maybe what I say might help them.

So here we are. So much to get through. How will it get noticed?

I want to shout.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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