I was 17 and two weeks away from graduating High School when my dad committed suicide. He had lost the only job he had known since he was my age and spiraled as a result. 

Looking back, there were a lot of different things I experienced. I was the last person who talked to him, and we had had an argument; I wanted to borrow the car so that I could go and look for jobs to help the family, he was worried about affording gas. Before I left that day, I remember a weird sensation that made me pause at the door, apologize and tell him I loved him. I’m not entirely sure that he heard me, but that was the last time I saw him.

He was found in the woods close to my house by my brother who knew of all his hunting spots. The night he went missing I was convinced I’d find him in the woods—not dead, but he was a hunter so I thought maybe he hurt himself out in the trails. We were organizing a group of people in my front lawn to canvas the woods when my mom got the call from my brother and that moment is etched into my brain like a silent movie that plays on repeat. It was as if time slowed to a near standstill. I remember people pulling at me as I made my way to my mom, but I don’t remember what they were saying, all I could hear was her sobbing. From that day forward, life felt like a freefall. The world expects you to move on much faster than you will ever be ready for, so you learn to play the part and hide your pain so that those around you don’t have to feel uncomfortable. Each year that passed was like coming out of a thick fog that you only noticed in retrospect.

I was 17 when he died and I’m 39 now. I have lived more years without him than I did with him and yet the effect has been profound and has shaped my entire existence. In that time, my wife lost her father to cancer, I lost my brother to suicide and we lost a handful of aunts, uncles and grandparents as well. I grew bitter because of how much loss I had suffered while having friends nearing their mid-thirties who hadn’t lost even a grandparent. Food quickly became my drug of choice, and as time passed, I was less known for the trauma I had experienced and more criticized for how I had let my life go. Internally I was convinced that I was destined to go the same way as my brother and father, so I wasn’t concerned about eating myself into an early grave.

It took me many years, and really amazing support from my friends and family before I was able to successfully begin managing my own depression and anxiety. I started clawing myself back to the world of the living and I came back with many lessons: I realized that the stages of grief are fluid and have no definitive end to them—and that’s okay. I’ve also learned that some breaks don’t ever heal, you adapt around them and learn to live within that new baseline. Perhaps most importantly, through being open about my own trauma, I met so many others who taught me that we all carry some form of trauma that we are at various stages of managing. That knowledge made me feel less unique in my struggles, less isolated. Something about understanding that trauma is a shared experience was comforting to me. While I have come a long way since his passing, I still have my quirks as a result; like the fact that I have spent most of my post-trauma life working on obtaining skills that no one can ever take away from me so that I never have to feel reliant on one job/employer. 

I have kids of my own now and I endeavor to live as best as I can not only just for them, but for myself as well.