October 31, 2024
307 Days Without You
Hi Dad,
I want to ask how you’ve been, but I bet all of your days in glory look the same. Are you so in awe of God and is everything so perfect that you forget to miss me? Can you feel the pain of missing us in Heaven? Because, god Dad, I can feel it all down here, every day. I’ve been doing okay, but I suppose that’s not totally true. The past few weeks have been really hard, Dad. From therapy appointments to psychiatrist appoints to blood work appointments (I know, that’s a lot of appointments), I’ve been feeling pretty exhausted, mostly mentally.
When you were here, we could always talk about mental health together because you just got it. (Did I ever say thank you for passing the OCD and depression genes down to me? Haha). We always understood each other because we both struggled with the same things. While I wish both of us never had to experience such immense depression and darkness, I was glad I had someone to talk to about all of it. I talk to mom about my mental health, but part of me doesn’t her to see how badly I’m struggling. I don’t want her to worry any more than she is.
Dad, you were always good at science. You were good at math, and art, and music, and pop culture, and sports, and the list goes on. You were always the one I asked for help on my homework growing up or to draw me a picture when I was little. So, here’s another problem for you to figure out: me. What will it take to make me okay again? Four more years of therapy? Another antidepressant? How about a crazy workout schedule? The last few weeks I have felt like a science problem no one can solve. Don’t get me wrong, I know my therapist and psychiatrist are very smart and capable people who are trying their best to help me, but we keep getting it wrong. “Let’s up her meds,” they say. “Okay, we upped them too much. Now her OCD is worse.” “Let’s try this script,” they offer, and on and on.” Dad, it’s exhausting not feeling mentally okay, and when no one can seem to figure out how to best help me, I feel hopeless. It’s exhausting to cross my fingers that a med works well enough that my emotions are leveled out, but not well enough where I’m numb to everything. Hope it helps my heart to stop racing before bed but doesn’t make my intrusive nightmares worse. I hope, I hope, I hope.
For the past four years, I feel like I go one step forward, two steps back. We find an antidepressant that works, but then my OCD symptoms get worse. Or, we try a new anxiety med, but the dosage isn’t right. God, it’s exhausting. I just want to feel stable and like myself, but honestly, I’m not so sure I know who I am anymore. Who am I without the dull ache of depression and bloody hands and feet from days of me picking at them? Who am I without worrying about cancer and scans and appointments? Who am I without grief? Who am I without a dying father? Who am I without the label of “girl who’s dad just died?” I don’t know. It’s been so long. I get glimpses of her, of who I am without all of these burdens, but she never stays for more than a moment or two. The last time I feel like I was truly myself was summer of 2022, the summer before you were diagnosed. You were healed from your car accident, you and mom were doing well, and I was having the time of my life counseling at camp. That was the last time I’ve felt true joy—joy that lasted for more than a brief moment, at least.
At least I know you’re at peace, more so, you’re experiencing true joy in Heaven. Dad, I anxiously await that moment, the next moment I’m confident I will feel joy in—running to you in glory. I know that, when I go to Heaven when I die, I will run to Jesus’ arms first. But after I let go of Jesus, it’s all you, Dad. I’m running straight to you.
