It's been ten years since I've called anyone "dad." Let's just start with that.
Being here in Peru has been emotional for a reason I never imagined/considered being a struggle. Every day I get to say, "Hola papa!" That whole "papa" word has been weird. After my dad passed, it's like I put the word "dad" in a box under my bed never to be opened again...there just simply won't be another. I'm S.O.L. You can only have one dad. You may not think so but this has made my heart very resistant to many people and hard for me to connect, to trust. I've also become a hard person to understand and I hate that I'm such a puzzle. I don't know how to open up. I don't want people to know I suffer.
This brings me to how there's this imaginary "load" on my back. When I was younger, it might as well have been a sack of bricks. One brick for resentment to my parents for divorcing, one for anger towards God, another two for a deep kind of sadness, maybe three bricks for my trust issues, and the biggest one isn't a brick. It's the intense desire to hug my dad again...just one more time is all I want. This is a whole damn mountain of boulders. I feel the desire hug my dad again to the core of my core. He used to hug me like I was unbreakable, if that makes any sense. Bear hugs, where you squeezed so hard you practically couldn't breathe, were our thing. I haven't had a bear hug in 10 years and I won't let anyone give me one because I don't want to confuse the way my father's felt with anyone else's. It's all I've got. This load, as you can see, is painful.
As the years go by, my load has become lighter and lighter because I've grown and experienced good people and the world's beauty. A lot of my questions haven't been answered but you know what? There were questions I didn't even ask that gave me the right dose of strength. There are certain moments in my life I can remember my load becoming modified, alleviated. It's as if my heart has asked for certain remedies that come in the shape and form of people and beautiful things/places in our world. When those remedies are received, my load is "appeased".
My heart's received an answer through my "papa." I have a dad again guys. It's an amazing feeling. I tear up at the thought. I am right now.
My "papa" and I get along so well. He listens and has all the patience in the world. I genuinely don't think I've ever met someone this patient. I'll come back from training exhausted and he sits down in my room as I'm unpacking to ask me questions about my day, how I'm feeling, if I'm having diarrhea, if I've seen anymore cockroaches in my room, how are my spider bites, has anyone been giving me trouble on the street (these are routine questions, no joke). Some other volunteers really like their space from their host families because of how overwhelming this experience is but I cherish every moment with my papa. In fact, I look forward to opening the door and yelling, "Hola papa!!" and hearing, "Hola hija chocolate!!!" (Backtrack to the first week - my mom forgot my full name, Gioconda, which I guess kind of rhymes with "chocolate" in Spanish and seriously asked if my name was chocolate...well now it might as well should be because that's all they call me. I love it.) Anyways, by doing this, my papa winds up lifting my spirits. We crack each other up like we've been besties since kindergarden. He thinks my incessant hiccuping is the funniest thing. I think his corny as all hell jokes are the funniest thing. It works out perfectly.
Yesterday, Oct. 3, was the 10th anniversary of my father's passing. Oct. 4, today, is my "papa's" birthday though, and I can't help but think of this significance of these two dates of men I happen to respect so very much.
I gotta say I feel like God's trying to tell me something. Every time Oct. 3 rolls around, my day is just off, especially at the exact time I received the news. It's like I'm reliving dropping the phone and running across the street to a neighbor's house yelling, "my dad's dead" for the first time. This happens every year, 6pm sharp on Oct. 3.
This year was different. Oct. 4 has been a celebration of life and I can't help but think good thoughts and want to celebrate my real father's life as well. Tonight at the dinner table for my papa's birthday I was telling funny stories of my dad, like the time he drove backwards on the highway because he missed the stop for my mom's house and how after my parents divorced, anything my mom told my brother and I what we can't have, he'd give it to us just to piss her off. For example, Harry Potter books. My mom is very religious and thinks Harry Potter books are full of "witchcraft."
I think I'm supposed to mourn. That's just part of life, but now I know to celebrate my dad as well...to not be scared to talk about him in the past tense and have people look at me as if they're gathering what's unsaid and feeling pity. No, I want people to feel I'm celebrating my dad's life in keeping him alive through the memories. I am a strong girl because of the stronger people around me that I'm learning so much from.
This epiphany I can wholeheartedly thank my "papa" for. His photo is below. His love has opened up my heart again. Ten years later, my healing process is still evolving, but this has been a huge step forward for me. It's tremendous what love and open arms can do.
Happy birthday to my "papa" and I love you dad in heaven watching over me!
Being here in Peru has been emotional for a reason I never imagined/considered being a struggle. Every day I get to say, "Hola papa!" That whole "papa" word has been weird. After my dad passed, it's like I put the word "dad" in a box under my bed never to be opened again...there just simply won't be another. I'm S.O.L. You can only have one dad. You may not think so but this has made my heart very resistant to many people and hard for me to connect, to trust. I've also become a hard person to understand and I hate that I'm such a puzzle. I don't know how to open up. I don't want people to know I suffer.
This brings me to how there's this imaginary "load" on my back. When I was younger, it might as well have been a sack of bricks. One brick for resentment to my parents for divorcing, one for anger towards God, another two for a deep kind of sadness, maybe three bricks for my trust issues, and the biggest one isn't a brick. It's the intense desire to hug my dad again...just one more time is all I want. This is a whole damn mountain of boulders. I feel the desire hug my dad again to the core of my core. He used to hug me like I was unbreakable, if that makes any sense. Bear hugs, where you squeezed so hard you practically couldn't breathe, were our thing. I haven't had a bear hug in 10 years and I won't let anyone give me one because I don't want to confuse the way my father's felt with anyone else's. It's all I've got. This load, as you can see, is painful.
As the years go by, my load has become lighter and lighter because I've grown and experienced good people and the world's beauty. A lot of my questions haven't been answered but you know what? There were questions I didn't even ask that gave me the right dose of strength. There are certain moments in my life I can remember my load becoming modified, alleviated. It's as if my heart has asked for certain remedies that come in the shape and form of people and beautiful things/places in our world. When those remedies are received, my load is "appeased".
My heart's received an answer through my "papa." I have a dad again guys. It's an amazing feeling. I tear up at the thought. I am right now.
My "papa" and I get along so well. He listens and has all the patience in the world. I genuinely don't think I've ever met someone this patient. I'll come back from training exhausted and he sits down in my room as I'm unpacking to ask me questions about my day, how I'm feeling, if I'm having diarrhea, if I've seen anymore cockroaches in my room, how are my spider bites, has anyone been giving me trouble on the street (these are routine questions, no joke). Some other volunteers really like their space from their host families because of how overwhelming this experience is but I cherish every moment with my papa. In fact, I look forward to opening the door and yelling, "Hola papa!!" and hearing, "Hola hija chocolate!!!" (Backtrack to the first week - my mom forgot my full name, Gioconda, which I guess kind of rhymes with "chocolate" in Spanish and seriously asked if my name was chocolate...well now it might as well should be because that's all they call me. I love it.) Anyways, by doing this, my papa winds up lifting my spirits. We crack each other up like we've been besties since kindergarden. He thinks my incessant hiccuping is the funniest thing. I think his corny as all hell jokes are the funniest thing. It works out perfectly.
Yesterday, Oct. 3, was the 10th anniversary of my father's passing. Oct. 4, today, is my "papa's" birthday though, and I can't help but think of this significance of these two dates of men I happen to respect so very much.
I gotta say I feel like God's trying to tell me something. Every time Oct. 3 rolls around, my day is just off, especially at the exact time I received the news. It's like I'm reliving dropping the phone and running across the street to a neighbor's house yelling, "my dad's dead" for the first time. This happens every year, 6pm sharp on Oct. 3.
This year was different. Oct. 4 has been a celebration of life and I can't help but think good thoughts and want to celebrate my real father's life as well. Tonight at the dinner table for my papa's birthday I was telling funny stories of my dad, like the time he drove backwards on the highway because he missed the stop for my mom's house and how after my parents divorced, anything my mom told my brother and I what we can't have, he'd give it to us just to piss her off. For example, Harry Potter books. My mom is very religious and thinks Harry Potter books are full of "witchcraft."
I think I'm supposed to mourn. That's just part of life, but now I know to celebrate my dad as well...to not be scared to talk about him in the past tense and have people look at me as if they're gathering what's unsaid and feeling pity. No, I want people to feel I'm celebrating my dad's life in keeping him alive through the memories. I am a strong girl because of the stronger people around me that I'm learning so much from.
This epiphany I can wholeheartedly thank my "papa" for. His photo is below. His love has opened up my heart again. Ten years later, my healing process is still evolving, but this has been a huge step forward for me. It's tremendous what love and open arms can do.
Happy birthday to my "papa" and I love you dad in heaven watching over me!
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| PAPA!!!!!!!!!!!!!! |
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