Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #65

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:

I’ve been thinking (which you know I’m very, very prone to doing), and if there was one time in my life that I wish I had known you, it would be during my father’s battle with cancer and the aftermath of his suicide. Even more than all my years in the hospital and in doctor’s offices, I wish I would have known you when my father died. I wish you would have been there. Just to hold me if nothing else. It was a time of feeling very alone, afraid and helpless and hopeless for me. I imagine it would have been nice just to have you hand to hold.

And speaking of mt father, gosh, I wish you could have known him. You’ll probably hate to hear this, but I was a certifiable Daddy’s Girl. It was definitely bad. My disability sure had something to do with it, too…from the day I was born, my father was my legs. I know most daughters think their fathers are these larger-than-life superheroes, but it was actually true in my case. He made me feel like my disability didn’t matter, like I could live life in spite of it. And I did, with his help, whether he was holding me on the shores of the beach until he back ached from bending over (even then, let me keep playing) or sitting at our small dining room table night after night until I understood Boyle’s Law in chemistry.
What would it have been like when you met him for the first time? Isn’t that fun to think about? Though you’re probably a bit glad you didn’t have to go through the whole interrogation-by-the-father routine, aren’t you? It’s OK…you can admit it. I can tell you one thing, though: he was very protective of me. You would have been subject to a litany of questions that could rival the smarts of FBI agents.

When he was suddenly gone so fast, I couldn’t help but feel like a part of me – a large (and strong) part – died with him. And I miss that – I miss that girl I used to be. I’m slowly trying to find her again, and I think I will. Someday.

But my father and I? We just had this indescribable bond, and damnit, I hate it sometimes that I’m still so angry with him, though I’ll probably never admit that I hate this anger. So, right now back in 2010, I just want to apologize in advance for the many times I probably going to say, “I hate him,” when referring to my father. I may never let go of that defense mechanism. Is that a horrible thing for a daughter to say, Sweetpea? Please don’t think any less of me because of it.
And if I even get a little insecure of your love for me, or if I have trouble letting you in when we first meet? Well, I’m terribly sorry for that, too. Feeling like your father would rather be dead than be with his family – the people he loved so dearly – has brought up some trust issues for me, I’m slowly realizing.

I suppose in a way, I’m sort of glad you didn’t know me then. I was sort of a mess – very numb, just going through the motions of life. To this day, I still can’t believe I went back to college and carried on with classes and school work just two weeks after his death. Sometimes I’d feel like I was drowning. Other times, I just felt like crying. And still other times, I just wanted to curse his name.
But I do hope we’ll be able to talk about his suicide – not on the first date (don’t worry, Sweetpea!) – because whether I like it or not, it is definitely a part of my past, my present and my future. It has become a part of who I am. I look forward to your kind and sensitive comforting, and of course, your willingness to listen.

And yes, before you ask, I’ll probably miss him at our wedding, but I’m sure you’ll know what I’ll say (hint: it involves the word hate). Just know I don’t really mean it, even if I swear I do and tell you to stop telling me how I feel. But maybe we’ll feel his presence with us on that day. That would be comforting, wouldn’t it?

Oh my, why is writing this making me a little teary-eyed this morning? I love you. Until we meet…

[Photos via Le Love and Sabino]