(My Dad and I, Christmas 1974)

This past Wednesday, April 23, would’ve been my dad’s 75th birthday. Nine years, seven months, and six days ago I put my dead father into a hole in the ground. In that time I have kept myself from stepping fully into the insanity that so reassuringly beckoned me on that day and for years afterwards, raised a little boy all on my own, and even wrote a book. I’ve allowed a wound that will never heal to be the place from which I grow — the place from which I help others to heal in my role as a Peer Support Specialist. I have done many, many things but I cannot get the scab over that particular wound to stay. The pain grief brings is much like a blood thinner — it keeps one from dying from the clots caused by holding your dead father’s hand while keeping the initial wound from completely healing over. Any slight blow to the wound and you bleed anew. The wound is an everlasting thing.

I used to aspire to live myself into a day in which I would no longer feel the pain of his loss. When you are a new amputee, all you want is your old limb back. When you’ve had a heart attack, all you want is your old heart back. You don’t want this new heart — a heart filled with clots of pain that threaten to kill you as you sob over the last roll of paper towels he bought you back when you were loved and protected and cared for. I don’t blame that Issa for wanting the pain to go away. I can’t blame her for wanting some small measure of relief. Thing is, I’m glad for the pain these days. I don’t mind being on emotional blood thinners anymore. I don’t want to close my eyes and not be able to see his face as he walked down the hallway to my apartment with something in his hands for me or my kid, as usual. I don’t ever want to live a day when I think of something loving and supportive my father did for me or my son and tears of gratitude don’t well up in my eyes. I don’t think still feeling pain after all these years means that I’m not healing. I know that usually “the goal” is to heal from what has harmed or traumatized you. Working towards healing is a wonderful thing. I’m learning, though, that some wounds are life-long, some wounds will never fully heal, and that doesn’t make us failures, or “stuck,” or less-than — it just makes us profoundly human. Some wounds will always be a bit tender to the touch. That’s okay. I’m okay.

For anyone who struggles with the damage caused by trauma, I know how hard it is to bear witness to the reality that no matter how much work we do to heal, trauma and its adverse effects often remain forever a part of us. We often get lost in language around “healing” meaning we are “making it all disappear,” but I think the more accurate version of healing is that the scar doesn’t disappear — it will remain with us forever — but the deadly infection doesn’t have to remain. The intense pain and inflammation of severe emotional infection can be treated. And yes, sometimes getting rid of the kind of septic infection caused by trauma can take a really long time. It can appear to recede because one day you hear their favorite song and instead of weeping you smile and dance and rejoice — only to find yourself, seventeen days later, curled up in your bed all day on a warm, beautiful Saturday, unable to get up because your limbs are too weak to bear the weight of all your pain. It all gets so damn exhausting. Just know that any wounds that remain aren’t an indication that you somehow failed at healing, and that your healing isn’t a one-and-done. While that can feel daunting, it can also free you of the expectation to “get it right.” There is no right. There is only being present to your feelings, honoring why you’re feeling them, and giving yourself the permission and the resources to help them move through the stuck places in your psyche. You will have to do this many times but that just means you will have many opportunities for the kind of attention and release your pain most needs. You will have many opportunities in life to lighten your emotional load, and, if I may be so bold — swearing like a sailor helps with this process. The more you let out a good “FUCK THIS FUCKING SHIT!”, the easier it gets. There’s very little pain that a well-placed “MOTHERFUCKER!” can’t ease, even if only slightly.

Despite my copious use of the most explicit profanity possible, the one thing that has been most helpful to me is that I’ve learned to be gentle with myself. If you carry an old wound that has yet to heal, see if you can be kind to yourself about it. Learning to live with the wound, learning to not let it “run the show” and be the place you operate from is what’s necessary here. You haven’t failed if the wound isn’t sealed up all nicely. You are a human being in a world that causes injury to everyone in it, in one way or another. Go easy on yourself. Lean into kindness and allow it to show you how to appreciate your strength in the face of such pain. I’ve learned to admire the parts of myself that bear my wounds with such grace. That, in and of itself, feels miraculous to me.

We are miracles, you and I. I’m going to try my best to stand in awe of that today

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