My father was described as many different things. He was funny; creative; sweet; incredibly hard-working; brilliant; and always up for a good time. He was fun to be around. He brought energy and excitement to everything we did. He was always playing music. If something needed to be done, he went above and beyond all expectations. The outcome would be so brilliant that people would be left in awe by just how marvelous he was. I would sit back and revel in the fact that he was my dad.

However, by the time I turned 17, life drastically changed and new words arrived.

Bipolar. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Psychosis. Addiction.

My world went from making sense, to suddenly feeling terrifying and unknown. For the next several years, my mind scrambled to rework my father’s narrative into something I could believe in. But, what little I knew of the truth kept me from being able to accurately process what was happening to my father. And what would eventually happen to all of us.

After witnessing two of his psychotic episodes, and absorbing the aftermath, I didn’t care about his brilliance anymore. I just wanted my sweet, fun dad to come back. But he never did. Instead, he morphed into a person I didn’t recognize; a person no one recognized.

Over the years he detached more and more from reality. He clung to the version of himself that could still go above and beyond. The version who once turned everything he touched into gold.

Seven years later, life took another dark turn.

My mother was diagnosed with a form of kidney cancer that the doctors told her was as rare as being struck by lightening. She died 18 months later. Less than two years after that, my big brother, who took on the role of managing my father more than a son ever should, died of alcohol-induced liver failure.

My bitterness and resentment ran so deep, and my heartache felt never-ending, that interacting with my father hurt me more than anything else in the world. He was desperate to ignore what had happened, and the role he played in all of it. And I was desperate for him to know how hurt I was, hoping that would make a difference.

It didn’t.

Right up until the year he died, he believed he would still be able to produce something that would make him a millionaire.

The stress of my confusion and sorrow led me to detach from him completely. I blocked his number. Sent his emails to spam.

When he died in 2021, we hadn’t spoken in over a year. I had hoped the distance between us would allow my grief to land softly. But death and grief don’t care about what we want, and once he was gone, everything came crashing down in a way I never expected.

Long story short, I was in hell.