Socks, 23
Submitted Oct 26, 2010
My father is dead Socks's father is dead
OK. First of all I have to apologize to all of you who have English as your first language. Sorry about the bad language.
In my own language I'm kind of a grammar fascist, but I don't want my story to feel like homework, I want it to be written right now, as I feel right now, so I'll probably make one or a hundred fuck-ups here and there. Again - I apologize for the bad grammar and spelling. I'll do the best as I can for now.

I feel a bit akward writing this in in English, but writing it in Swedish would feel excluding to everyone else. Hopefully you will be understanding. Hopefully my story will make sense to someone out there.

The simple fact that I ended up here makes me feel like a loser. I feel like I should be able to make it without him. But the pain is too strong. It took me here. God, even that phrase feels pathetic. But.. fact is, I'm here. Because my pain still is real, and I have nowhere to put it but here, on this anonymous forum.

When I was 14, my father killed himself. He hung himself.
He was diagnosed with bipolar disease since a long time. I remember him doing a lot of the following: Working. Drinking. Being angry. Always a lot of either one of them. I remember how I asked my mom:
- Mom, where's dad?
- He's in Amsterdam/Sao Paolo/Paris/London/Reykjavik/New York

When he came back, he brought me and my older sister presents. Eventually he took us on trips. But I can't remember much of him being around in the everyday-life. I remember him sitting in his room (mom and dad had separate rooms). He had a little couch in there. He drank beer and he watched sports. It feels so fucking pathetic, but that is what I remember from him when he wasn't on his business trips.

Sometimes he would get really angry, stressed, and loud. If I cried, he'd put his hands over my mouth and nose, screaming "Shut up! Shut the fuck up!", and then tossing me roughly to the floor.
Of course it just made me cry even more; I got scared. Mum always came and saved me, screaming at dad that he was out of his mind.

I imagine him feeling bad about that aggressiveness. He must have. When he wasn't angry or drinking in his own solitude up in his room, he was funny, energetic, loving.

A couple of years after his suicide, I started asking questions. What was wrong with dad? Why did he kill himself?

The obvious fact is of course depression. But there are different grades of depression, as you all know. There is a huge difference between being depressed and actually going all the way.

Long time after, only a couple of years ago, my older sister got pregnant. She kept the baby, and during the pregnancy the doctors started to look at her medical history - including the parents' medical history.

This is where I learned that my father suffered from bipolar disease. It was written in my sister's journal.
So cold. So clinically.
"Father was manic depressive."
The disease killed him. I like to think about it that way. That the mental illness finally got him. Just like cancer,

When I started to read books about bipolar disease it all came clear to me. Or no, not clear, but it explained more. Almost all of the doctors I have spoken with on this issue agree on the fact that bipolar disease has a high rate of suicide.

From time to time I have - of course - had my own problems with the mind. My arms are so full of big, ugly scars I will never be able to wear short sleeves in public again. The doctors I have spoken to about this tell me that there are some suspicions that I myself might also suffer from bipolar disease, looking at my history of behaviour during my teens, my depressions that keep coming back for more and so on. I don't know what to say about that. I don't need a doctor to diagnose me.

All I know is - genetically disease or not: he caused me this pain. Every single one of these nasty and irreversible scars on my arms, legs and chest.

I am angry with him. First he didn't prioritise me and my sister, he worked to much and almost never was at home. And then he just killed himself, feeling sorry for himself, never thinking about the consequenses for everyone. Yes, it sounds childish, but it's the child in me speaking now.
It's. Just. Not. OK.

I hate him.
I miss him.
I love him.
He's a stranger to me.
I just want him to know I am.
I just want to know who he were.
I just want to ask him some questions.
I hate him.
I just want him to ask me questions.
I hate him.
I hate him.

If I only could, just for a moment, talk to him. Just talk. Five minutes, it's all I need.
I'll never get those fucking five minutes and I know it.
And I hate it.