One Year After the Call

I was estranged from my Dad for 20 years.

 

In that time, I saw him at my sister's wedding and my Mom's memorial service.

 

I did a lot of work on my daddy issues, but he undoubtedly was a sort of ghost in my life when he was alive.

 

I had no idea how I would feel when he died. I was stunned that he killed himself. Even though he was doctor-phobic and not in good health, I thought he would live forever just out of tenacity and spite.

 

Even though I was an adult and in control of my own life, there was a low grade tension in the background about ever seeing him again. If I did what would he do? How would I respond?

My sister and I had very different experiences of him growing up. I was the ultrasensitive introvert who was always at home, who had his talent for drawing. That made me an easy target for his hypercriticism and mind games. I was at once really special and never good enough. Good luck navigating that, eh?

 

I always thought I would feel relief when he died. He could never get in another verbal barb.

 

Relief wasn't really the feeling. It was, later, in a broader sense. A sense of liberation being 44 with no parents. Plenty of people would not feel that way. With my childhood, it felt good to be truly my own person.

 

(I do think I did a whole of my grieving in 2010, a year after our Mom died suddenly of a heart attack. That's when I did The Hoffman Process that helped sort through and get through a train-car-full of emotional baggage from both Mom and Dad.)

But there wasn't relief in the specifics of him being gone. Just sadness. Sadness for the potential not met. My dad was incredibly smart, creative, funny, charismatic. He had brilliant moments. But they were crowded out with the belief that everyone was out to fuck him over.

 

That he would get them before they got him.

 

I suspect, but I will never know, that he had my kind of sensitivities, feeling too much, sensing too much.

 

I had some healthy outlets for that, learned how to have healthy boundaries and build environments that work for me, though it has caused wear and tear, for sure. I suspect that he used alcohol and marijuana to dial those senses down. The too-much-ness.

 

And a year ago, it was too much for him.

 

My sister, my brother-in-law, others have tried to piece together clues. Why he took his life.

 

We never know someone's whole story, or even their experience in any specific moment.

 

I want to believe in alternative universes. I would like to visit the one where Robert Agerbeck was happier, healthier, not an asshole, didn't have any desire or need to get something over on someone, no rage, no addiction, could be funny and charming with no sharp edge, a life of expression and fulfillment that really let his talents shine. A different plane where he is still alive ready to hug both of his daughters.

 

On this plane, I take a deep breath, wipe away these tears, look forward to hugging my beloved sister next week and get back to the work here in the studio letting my talents shine.

 

Cheers. 🤍