Not Sorry

Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of my father’s death. I forgot about it. I mean, I know he died in August. But early this month I couldn’t put my finger on the date. Facebook reminded me. I looked at my post from a year ago and there were 78 comments. I flew through them, all with the same theme: “So sorry for your loss.” I think I feel more strongly about those statements a year later than I did that day.

The death of a parent has a way of opening your mind up to memories of trauma that had been locked away. It is not exaggerating for me to say the floodgates were thrown open, the damn collapsed and the walls crumbled to the ground.

Last year, I was not sorry to lose my father. I was sorry that my children experienced yet another death. No longer having any grandparent alive. Oftentimes, a person is a better grandparent than they were parent. But I was not sorry he was gone. Seeing all those posts this morning just reminded me how not sorry I am. Remembering what I had once locked tightly away has opened my eyes to so much deceit and betrayal and hurt and pain. And I am glad he cannot hurt me anymore.

I will not forgive. I will not forget. I will not “move on” as we are told to do. I cannot. But I am growing, and I am learning and I am healing. It is hard as fuck. But I don’t think I could move in that direction without his death. As wrong as some people might think it is to say, I will say it anyhow. I am not sorry he is gone. I am grateful he is gone.

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