I need a break (Patreon)

This morning, news came in. My father died.

He'd been hospitalized for exactly one month after a heart attack. He'd had a second one a few days ago. The third one took his life.

I did not have a good relationship with my dad. He was closed, always angry and unhealthily prideful. His ego was so frail I can't recall a single time where he apologized for having hurt someone. And his words hurt me many times.

At the same time, he never seemed to want a relationship with me. He didn't care much for my interests, my hopes and dreams, only that I succeed academically and learn what was necessary to live on my own. Whenever I tried to learn more about him, he always remained cryptic and cut the conversation short, like he was afraid to share.

He never gave me emotional support of any kind. He expected me to know what I had to do and do it, and in fact I remember he once got angry at me because I had the gall to ask him to tell me I could do it.  He wasn't any better with my sister, either, failing to recognize when she was struggling with self-esteem and assuming she wasn't getting anything done due to lazyness.

However, even with all of that, he was a hard-working man who did everything in his power to provide to us. We never had to suffer any financial issues because of him, and his relentless drive to keep us safe and fed. He did everything he could to ensure we could have all we wanted on the material side, and didn't waver once in front of adversity.

Most of my father's life has been defined by his health condition. He was born with a congenital kidney defect which, my mother told me, caused one of his livers to stop working when he was barely older than I am now. An issue which could have been fixed, but the doctors caring for him were too superficial, or so I was told.

For as long as I've known him, my dad has been struggling with health. First he had to conduct daily dialysis, then he had to get a kidney transplant and take several immune suppressants which caused dozens of side effects. Sickness after sickness which threatened to take his life due to being immunosuppressed. Eventually, his first heart attack caused by complications due to his medicine. A few years later, a second one. The failure of his transplanted kidney, the return to dialysis. Then, another couple years later, another series of heart attacks. And now he's dead.

All of that, and if what my mother tells me is true, it could have all been prevented if the doctors who visited him before I was even born had taken his condition more seriously.

I never knew if my issues with my dad were because he truly was a bad parent, or my expectations were simply too high. And now, I'll never be able to know. I'll have to forever wonder if my feelings of betrayal and resentment were valid, or if he loved me in his own way, and I was acting like a spoiled brat for not recognizing.

For how much I criticized him, I cannot in good faith say I have been especially accommodating with him. I spent my childhood and adolescence devoured by self-imposed guilt, unhealthy expectations which made me feel worthless and convinced me I would never achieve anything in life. Once I recognized my father, his coldness and his obsession with results were to blame, I felt reborn, finding new purpose and happiness... but also forever painting him as an enemy.

I spent my young adult years in direct opposition to him. I wanted an apology. An acknowledgement that he'd hurt me, that he was sorry, and that he was willing to try to improve from there. I never got it. And now, I never will. And I'll never be able to know whether he was just too closed, too deep into the spiral of his own fragile ego... or if I'd been too cryptic, too accusatory and too inflexible when speaking to him.

I wanted to have a relationship with him. I wanted to know him. And most of all, I wanted to forgive him. But I wanted an apology. I wanted him to take the first step. And now I'll spend the rest of my life wondering if it really was too much to ask from this poor man, who had to deal with pain I can hardly imagine for twenty years. Who had his life taken from him in his sixties, after more than a month of suffering and hospitalization.

And now, as I sit alone in our home, I can't help but look around and see all the books no one will read anymore. The clothes no one will wear. The PC no one will use. The constant reminder of the opportunity I lost to have a relationship with my dad.

I don't want to bury my father, man. I'm just 24.

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I'm sorry you had to read all of that. Normally, I believe in strictly dividing my personal life and my presence online. I don't talk to y'all about my problems because I don't want to create a personality cult; I want to be known for my work, so I only talk to you about things relevant to that work.

But this time, I had to make an exception. I had the feeling that, if I didn't share my thoughts with you now, I would regret it. And God knows I already have too many regrets to deal with.

I won't be able to work for a bit. I can't write in this state, or work on A Quirky Night. I'm sorry for the continuous delays, but I can't see myself producing anything decent while I'm dealing with all of this.

I hope I can get over this tragedy soon, and come back to doing what I love.

Until then, take care everyone. And thank you for your understanding.

-Mist