On Grief

So my dad died.

Written by Aliyah Carrion

My alcoholic father has passed. Shocker. Live Cirrhosis. Amongst other things. Shocker.

Sorry. I have a quite a dark sense of humor.

I have been having a difficult time putting together the words to make sense of the situation. My sister said, "He was the first man I ever loved and the first man to ever break my heart." Well, damn. Ain't that the fucking truth.

I had a really odd relationship with my dad. I joked that 6 of the days of the week I despised him and then that 1 day a week I loved him so damn fucking much. it’s true. He drove my absolutely insane, but he was a piece of my heart and entire existence.

We were polar opposites, but we were really one in the same. I admired his ability to command a room, even if it was to just do little jigs and tell jokes - he had a way of drawing attention to himself. I could say the same about myself. (We are Boricua. Lol.)

One thing about my father was that he was extremely blunt, which often hurt people’s feelings. Again, I could say the same about myself.

So as I sat there for days watching my father's body shut down and decay, bit by bit and piece by piece (literally). I found myself at this odd crossroads: I could do a few things here, sure, I could sit there and tell him how much I loved him and how thankful I was that he was my father and all the sappy corny shit most people tell their parents on a daily basis. Or I could tell him how it was, bluntly, like I always did.

So that’s what I did. I told him how much I loved him, but I did not once speak without absolute truth behind my words. I was thankful my dad was the one that raised me, he made me who I am in many ways. But that wasn’t entirely positive. I am the person I am because I spent so much of my life overcoming the shit he put me through. I loved the shit out of my dad, but he was an alcoholic. And that addiction hurt me. A lot.

This contrast taught me a lot about myself and reminded me of the person I am. The time I spent sitting on that hospital bed I spoke with full confidence behind my words. To be honest, if he had the energy to speak, he would’ve told me to either A) shut the fuck up or B) fuck off. Sure we didn’t get to speak much, but I know he heard me. And I wanted to keep our relationship as raw and real as it always was, until the very last moment. Seriously.

I forgave my father a very long time ago. Our relationship was always different at any given moment. We’d go months without speaking. Once I even told him  I wouldn’t be there for him on his death bed. I’ll admit that. But I was. I sat there with him for days, feeding him, helping him drink water,  laying with him. And of course turned the news off every time the hospital TV would switch to it, because nobody needs to see that shit when life is already depressing enough.

I am sure some of my words may seem harsh and some of you may think I am insensitive. But you don’t know my story and you don’t know the things I have overcome. I will overcome this, too, because that is just who I am. A relentless, persistent fighter. A resilient human.

I will miss my dad. I do miss him. A lot. But I can find peace in the fact that my dad is no longer suffering,because he was. And he is finally resting with his granddaughter. That is all he ever wanted.