fly high, dad.

I keep hoping this is all a dream.

I keep hoping when I open the door, you would be sitting there, ruminating on your thoughts like always, but putting on a smile the second you see me.

Everything feels unreal.

I could only imagine the desperation you felt.

Riding in that Lyft, standing by the water.

I wonder what your last thoughts were before you took that step.

I didn't know it was possible to feel so devastated and numb at the same time.

I guess I must learn to accept that you won't be here to see me blow out 18 candles, turn the tassel from right to left, or move out for college.

————————————————

At a young age, my naive self couldn’t fathom why my dad would consume weird medications every Friday night. Upon ingraining this in my memory as a “normal family routine,” I felt myself becoming slowly disconnected from my dad, who rarely appeared his normal self. The silence encapsulated us as I witnessed his mental health deteriorate, hanging on by a thread.

My family members told me not to worry, so I never became concerned with his condition until later in my teenage years when he began having paranoia and more psychosis episodes. He refused my attempt to connect him with a psychiatrist. The illness has swallowed him whole, making him believe that everyone was out to harm him, out to harm us.

He wasn’t the best at communicating or socializing, but he was a kind person at heart. He had a brilliant mind, yet so self-destructive that it left him with no choice but to opt for the eternal relief. I know he loved me and wanted the best for me, even though he never figured out the best way to express it.

Dad, I wish all the paranoia, delusions, and anxiety will finally leave you alone now.

You raised a strong girl, or maybe you scared me into one. Either way, I will show you how beautiful life could be.