(TW: Death, overdose, grief)
My father overdosed and passed away after decades of struggling with mental illness and substance abuse. I was 20.
He and I were close—more friends and confidants than father-daughter. He’d tell me about his ambitions of running his handyman business, buying a home, getting on his feet, retiring to a golf community in Myrtle Beach.
He’d talk about taking vacations, about paying for my future wedding and walking me down the aisle. He talked about catching a big break, and how he’d be able to take care of his parents instead of the other way around.
And then he’d ask me what I wanted to do , who I wanted to be, and it didn’t matter how far-fetched the answer was. We’d dive into grand plans and imagine what it would be like when I became the first woman singer/dancer/actress/businesswoman/President of the United States.
He treated my dreams as if they were as achievable as brushing my teeth. And no matter how his own challenges (read: crippling addictions and enablers) kept him from realizing his goals, he kept up the façade of optimism for as long as he could.
I saw the weight he carried. I saw it get heavier as we got older. And I saw him drop the act, or maybe he was slowly losing faith, more and more often.
Eventually, I stepped away as the situation grew more toxic and the illness took over, a choice that I still regret sometimes.
So when he passed, I inherited the pressure to live the life he couldn’t. To believe that everything was hard, but achievable, and that if he couldn’t do it, I could. For me, and for him.
Not in the sense of living his dreams—you definitely do not want to hire me for home improvement projects—but finding a way to achieve mine, so that he could celebrate and see them with me.
To squeeze the shit out of every experience, knowing that life is finite. To make everything mean something, or to live each moment and savor it, not knowing what the next will bring.
Interesting how living in the moment and trying to lead with gratitude turned into this feeling of a knife in my back whispering “life life to the fullest, or else.”
Chase after your dreams and don’t give up, or else.
Be the absolute best you can be in every facet of your capabilities, or else.
Push your body to the extreme and take perfect care of it, or else.
Say yes to a proposal, even if you think it’s too soon, or else.
Do the scary thing because it might lead to something great, or else.
Turn every creative idea into a business venture, or else.
Attach every hobby or endeavor to a larger vision and measurable goal, or else.
Capitalize on every opportunity given, or else.
Or else you might run out of time and leave the people who love you wondering, what else could they have accomplished? What will they miss if they’re not here?
Who could they have become if they didn’t hold back or allow other things (addictions, distractions, ‘silly’ hobbies) get in the way?
The idea of living life to the fullest is supposed to set you free. To give you the blessing to explore and wander and breath deep.
But when you’ve lost someone who could have done so much, who wanted to do so much, who deserved the chance to do so much more… you’re left with the weight of their unfulfilled dreams, and living life to the fullest now becomes living lives to the fullest.
Sometimes, that weight feels like an honor. Because I know he’s hanging around, cheering for me as I stumble through the hoops. And I am so willing to carry the weight for both of us, because he wanted me to get everything I’d ever dreamed of.
Sometimes, it feels like pressure from a countdown ticking, never knowing when it’ll run out.