It’s been 30 years.
Thirty years ago today, my step-father ended his life and forever changed the lives of so many others. I doubt that he had any idea how his suicide would affect those that were left behind.
In the early years after he died, my mom would take my brothers and I out of school and we’d spend the day doing something together. Often, we’d go to the zoo, to a movie or to a park. Anything to be doing something together. These days, though we aren’t together, I take a moment to remember him and to be grateful that he didn’t decide to hurt my mother or to set it so that my brothers or I would walk in to find him.
Thirty years is a long time. It’s a lifetime. And yet, I can remember so many things about that terrible day. I’ve talked about his suicide before, so I won’t rehash it here.
I just didn’t want the day to go by without acknowledging the sadness that I feel for him, for me, for my mother and for my brothers.
Who’s to say what our lives would have been like if he’d been able to conquer his demons. I can’t imagine how different things would have been for all of us if he had lived to be part of our lives. I don’t know that they would have been easier, or better. They just would have been different.
Tomorrow, I’ll have something happy to celebrate. My son turns fourteen tomorrow. When my doctor scheduled me for delivery, I insisted that we wait until the 17th. There was no way that I would have my son’s day shared with something so sad.
For today, though, I send my love to my mother and to my brothers. We made it through.