Three Categories of Grief

When my mom died,
I was told that grief can be separated into two categories:
the ones you expect to lose,
and the ones you don’t.

You see, when my mom decided to take her own life, I wasn’t expecting it.

So when I was with my dad,
driving to Bear Lake for spring break,
stopping at a Wendy’s for lunch,
I was surprised by my grandmother’s phone call.

I saw my dad pick up the phone, a smile on his face and a cheer in his voice,
“Hi Peggy! How are you?”
His face immediately dropped, and
I knew something was wrong.
He turned to me and said, “Kristi is dead.”

I couldn’t process this.
I wanted to call her and ask, “This isn’t real, right?”
I wanted to take a baseball bat to
every window and
every table
of that stupid Wendy’s.
I felt guilty for not appreciating her enough while she was alive.
As if it was my fault she died.
As if I could’ve done anything at 16 to prevent this.
As if anyone could’ve helped her except herself.

I used to be jealous of people who complained about how
annoying their parents were because
at least they had parents.
I used to be jealous of people who had the
privilege of preparing a goodbye for their parents death
like you see in assisted living facilities.
I used to wish that, if my mother was going to die anyway, that it could’ve
at least been by cancer.
Or liver failure.
Or literally anything other than reality.

I couldn’t prepare for it.
I was robbed of a goodbye.

When my mom died,
I was told grief can be separated into two categories,
but I’ve come to learn that there is a third, lesser known category:
The grief of someone who is still alive.

Because while I was grieving my mom,
I was also grieving my dad.

My dad isn’t dead, but he might as well be.

When I cut him off,
the last straw wasn’t when he
blamed me for his inability to conceive with his new wife;
Nor was it when I was
banned from his home after coming out;
Nor was it when he sat back as my step mom told me it was
my fault my mom killed herself because
God was punishing me for my apostasy.

The last straw was when my little brother ran away.

When my little brother ran away,
I had already moved out and was living on my own.
My dad texted me saying he was
missing
and asked if he had contacted me.
I truthfully responded no,
I haven’t heard from him,
but I will drive up to Ogden immediately and help with the search.

He declined my calls.
He told me no.
He told me to stay home.
He told me he didn’t want my help.
He stopped replying to my texts all together.
He lied to the police and told them that I kidnapped him.

Something inside me snapped that night because
I could tolerate him neglecting me,
and part of me even believed I deserved it,
but I have never felt so much outrage that
he was neglecting my little brother the way he neglected me.
Instead of taking productive action to find him,
my dad still found a way to blame it on me,
like he did all his problems.
Not once did he look inward to ask himself
why Kai was so miserable that
he’d rather live as a homeless teen on the streets of Ogden
than be with him for another second.

I haven’t spoken to my dad in two years now.
To be honest, my mental health has never been better.

But sometimes,
every once in a while,
I have flashbacks of the happy times like
when we watched Nosferatu while he drank soup out of a cup;
Or when we would roadtrip to Bear Lake every year and visit the beach;
Or when he bought me my first snake at the age of 12
that I still have to this day.

I used to think drinking soup out of a cup was stupid.
Now, I miss it.

But I can’t lie to myself.
I can’t pretend things are any different than what they are.
My life depends on never seeing him again,
but deep down,
I know I still love him.

So you see,
I’ve come to accept that there are three types of grief:

The grief of someone you expect to die,
The grief of someone you didn’t expect to die,
And the grief of someone who is still alive.