Daddy Lessons

“Came into this world, daddy’s little girl
And Daddy made a soldier out of me” -Beyonce

I was still wired when I came home. It could have been all the club music I danced to while, surprisingly, sober. Or the sugar rush from the blueberry pancakes I ate at IHOP afterward. Whatever the case, it was four a.m. and I was in no mood to go to sleep. I wanted to talk to somebody. No, needed to. But who?

My daddy’s face came to my mind as quickly as I thought the question. I needed to call him. I didn’t know why the urge to talk to him was so strong. It just was. Perhaps, it was because he was one of the few people I thought would be awake. Or, perhaps, there was a song I didn’t want to forget to talk to him about. We would talk about music sometimes. I would tell him my favorite songs and he would tell me what songs were sampled in them. My dad’s musical knowledge predated Google.

I had talked to my dad the day before. He had just been released from a halfway house. I don’t remember exactly what he went to jail for. Possession of drug paraphernalia, I think. That’s what they do to Black addicts. A soda can with holes poked in the side gets you locked up. I wonder how life would have been different if he was sentenced to rehab instead.

I don’t know if my dad ever went to rehab. I do know he was familiar with 12 step programs. In particular, Narcotics Anonymous (NA). He mentioned it during our last conversation. He talked about wanting to stay clean and about the new life he planned to live. And then he gave me a directive.

“Nik, you have to help me. I need you to be my NA.”

I’m sure I agreed to. I wanted to save him. His saving would be mine. I had been wanting to save him for nearly my entire life. Well, at least for half of my then 22 years. Yes, I’d be his 12 step program. Well, for hard drugs anyway. Weed didn’t count, did it? I had recently discovered the pleasures bud. I thought we could bond over it like we used to. I used to help him separate the stems and seeds when I was a child. Then, my brother and I would get to run around the house with incense wands making smoke circles. Marijuana with my pops…father-daughter goals.

Four in the morning. Wired, yet sober as fuck. Wanting…no, needing to talk to my daddy. About music? And weed? I talked myself out of calling. That conversation could wait. I ignored the sudden heaviness in my chest and willed myself to sleep.

The next afternoon was pretty chill. I didn’t have any classes so I went to my hair done. Relaxer. Wash. Conditioner. Sit under dryer while stylist does someone else’s hair. Rinse. Wrap. Sit under dryer to let the style set. Stay seated under dryer because thick ass hair takes forever to dry. Sit under dryer some more while stylist eats lunch. Style. And jet. I didn’t check my pager (yes, pager) until I got home. The 911s across the screen were not a good sign.

“Yo, our father is dead.”

That’s what it sounded like my brother said. But that couldn’t be.

It was.

In her book On Death and Dying, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross proposed that there are five stages of grief.

denial and isolation

What the hell you mean dead? He can’t be. I just talked to him the other day.

How do you know? Noooo. Something’s not right. That’s just not true.

Fuck grad school, this assistantship, my friends. I’m just going to stay in this apartment, starve myself, do situps, and wait for this nightmare to be over.

anger

Who would do this to my daddy right when he was getting his life together? When I find out, I’ll fuckin’ kill them.

Oh, there was cocaine in his system. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! How could he? He just got out. I hate him! Can you hate the dead?

bargaining

If only

I had been there to greet him when he got out of jail.
I hadn’t thought about smoking weed with him.
I had invited him to visit me.
I had something inspirational to say during our last conversation.
I hadn’t gotten my hair done.
I was a better Christian.
I had called last night. Why didn’t I call?

depression

Bitch, you know you killed him, right? He told you to help him and you just let him die. Just like that. Some NA you are. You are the worst type of daughter. You say you loved him but your selfish ass just let him die. Y’all connected, huh. What happened to your spidey senses? You know, he was reaching out to you. You know you could have saved him. You felt it. You should have called. You could have saved him but your dumbass decided to go to sleep. AS HE WAS DYING. As God was alerting you to do something. It’s your fault. You know it’s true. The coroner puts the time of death between four and five in the morning. You know what that means, don’t you? YOU COULD HAVE SAVED HIM. You’re fuckin’ worthless. Have always been worthless. Will always be worthless. You should die too. Maybe you’ll just waste away. Or stumble into traffic drunk. Or fuck someone with homicidal tendencies. Or slice the right artery. Or get a brain tumor. Or overdose. How many Tylenols would it take to end the pain for good?

acceptance

I don’t know her.

“I tried to drink it away
I tried to put one in the air
I tried to dance it away
I tried to change it with my hair” -Solange

I rolled guilt up and tried to smoke it away. I mix it in cocktails and tried to drink it away. I had babies and tried to birth the guilt away. I sat on couch after couch trying to psychoanalyze it away. Hell, I became a therapist and tried to counsel my own damn self whole. I read the Psalms, The Secret and Mahayana Sutras. I tried Prozac, St. John’s Wort, and lavender tea. I tried Bible Study, matinees, and yoga class. I tried starvation, cutting, and abusive relationships. Nothing worked. I couldn’t atone for my sin of letting my father die. Without atonement, I’d never be free to move on to acceptance.

There’s no denying that my decision to have a medium reading was precipitated by years of unresolved grief. Nearly, 25. More than half of my life. For a freakin’ quarter of a century, guilt and depression kept me from finding acceptance. When I walked into that reading, I had expectations. I tried not to let it show. Kept a poker face, you know. I didn’t want the medium to get too many context clues and start making shit up. For 55 minutes, I was a little disappointed that there weren’t many messages from my dad. I appreciated the presence of my other family members. But, let’s face it. I’m my daddy’s girl. He will always be the star to me.

With five minutes left in the reading, the medium asked if I had any last-minute things I wanted to say to my folks. I shook my head. He glanced at his timer, then looked up at me, and said the following.

“Your father is stepping up. He says he’s sorry. He says it’s not your fault. He was just broken. He says that he should have never given you the responsibility of taking care of him. He says it’s not your burden. You’ve been carrying it for too long. He says to give it back to him.“

Sometimes you don’t know how heavy something is until you put in down. Sometimes you do know but suffer through it anyway. I don’t want to suffer any longer. I’m releasing this burden the only way I know how to. With an incense burning and tea in my cup, I’m writing myself to acceptance of both my life and his death.

Categories: : Wellness