Today is the 22nd anniversary of my father’s suicide. I decided last night that I was going to spend the day trying to remember good things about him, rather than getting angry and depressed.

Here goes. I remember the way he used to look down at me and smile when I said something funny. I remember the way he would come home from work, change into more comfortable shoes and a cardigan sweater like Mr. Rogers did, lie down on his bed with his arm out, and let me snuggle into his arm so we could talk about our day while we waited for dinner to be ready. I remember how much pleasure he got from a good meal. Once I found a diary of his from the 50s and 60s. I was so excited to read it. I thought it would help me get to know the man who was gone. It ended up to be a travelogue of sorts, but instead of details of his road, rail and air travels all over the United States and Europe he detailed all of the meals he had. At first I was disappointed, but as I read it I found it to be a good read. I too love a good meal.

I remember how he used to tickle me under the chin and ask me if I was going to be his little Mathematician, his Chemist, or an Electrical Engineer like him when I grew up. I’m sorry Dad, I kind of fell apart after you died and I haven’t made it through school yet. I am trying to get well and to be a good parent to my kids and a good daughter and a good wife and a good sister. I have tried to take care of Mom for you since you’ve been gone.

I am sorry that you felt so down that you decided that death was your only option. I am sorry that you couldn’t find the mental health help that you needed. I know now that you tried going to doctors and you went to church everyday and prayed. I am sorry that you missed seeing your four kids grow up. I think you would be proud of all of us. You have nine grandkids that you never got to meet. I think you would have loved them all. I miss you. I did love you, even though I pretended that I didn’t at the end because I was angry. I couldn’t understand why you couldn’t stop drinking and yelling and hitting us. I understand now. I forgive you. R.I.P.

Your Daughter, Tammy