The Weight of Truth: A Story of Grief, Acceptance, and Healing

Tomorrow marks 20 years that my father died.

Wow.

It kind of feels like yesterday because I can see, feel and remember how I felt, what I ate for lunch that day, what my tears felt like when I said goodbye to him before his life support was turned off.

It also feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like lightyears since we shared food, laughed or I got to see the joy on his face of being a grandpa. So much has changed since he passed…9/11 was a few months after he died and he never got to be with me in my transformation or experience the pandemic.

My dad committed suicide.

It’s a lot to say, and a lot to hold.

I have learned the weight of this word — suicide, it sure quiets a room. And I have learned to accept it and feel the grief of it.

Grief is love. Love that has nowhere to go and yet it deeply wants to be felt. So it comes out as tears a lot.

I was angry for a long time. Confused. Devastated.

I also couldn’t hold the weight of _suicide_.

The stigma of it shrouded me and I couldn’t talk about it.

I didn’t tell people he tried to kill himself. I told people he had an allergic reaction…