I Was Teased for Having a Dead Dad | My Journey on Grief

He died a horrible death. I will never heal. Ever.

My father died when I was a young girl. A sudden and gut-wrenching death. He left behind two daughters and my mother — his dear wife.

When he died, I recall my teacher escorting me to the front of the classroom. She made me face my peers. Thereafter, she coldly informed my classmates of my father’s death.

She muttered, “Make sure you are extra kind towards Indigo today because her dad died”.

It was brutal. Upon reflection, I guess it was her skewed version of displaying empathy? Nevertheless, it was humiliating.

Subsequently, I was teased for having a dead father. My classmates could not fathom my reality. “How did he die?” “I heard your dad is dead?” *laughs* “What’s it like not having a dad?” “So… do you miss your dad?” *laughs* I’m not sure what goes through young children’s minds. I never understood why my peers felt the need to aggressively question my father’s death, followed with relentless and incessant chuckles of laughter.

It was baffling. As a grown adult, it still baffles me.

My Secret

I am in my late twenties now — the scars from my father’s death remain. To this day, I still struggle to muster up the courage to speak of him out loud. I physically cannot.

I have many long-term close friendships who are unaware of his passing. I often find myself talking about him in present tense. It is easier this way. My mentality is as follows; withholding the reality of his death, serves as a protection from having to deal with: 1. others’ pity 2. invasive questions 3. people’s empty condolences 4. unwarranted embraces of “comfort” 5. the innate pressure of having to explain how he died.

Recently, I was innocently asked by a close friend of mine, whom I have known for 6 years, “I never hear you talking about your dad. What’s he like? Does he look like you?” PSA: If you notice an individual not often mentioning their father or mother in conversation, please refrain from any form of questioning.

Do not seek answers. Just don’t. It is not your place. Their silence on the topic is more likely than not for good reason. And in my situation? I never spoke about him willingly because he was… you know it, DEAD. My response to the aforesaid question from said friend you’re wondering? “Yeah, he’s fine. We do look alike. He’s just doing his own thing at the moment but we’re good.”

I know.

It is not normal behaviour to speak about your dead father in present tense. But I have lived my adulthood, avoiding the topic of him at all costs. This is how I choose to cope. In all transparency, whilst writing this article, I have unlocked a memory.

The last instance I spoke about my father’s death, out loud, was at 14 years of age. Suddenly and without context, my nosy classmate asked if I lived with both parents.

I blatantly told her that my dad was dead. I walked home with a heavy heart that day. Since then, I truly cannot recall a time I have spoken about the reality of his death out loud.

Memories

My last joyous vivid memory of my father was when he expressively and proudly accompanied me to school. He was a proud man who loved his family. My father valued education.

In kindergarten, he bought my sister and I a whiteboard. He would buy us ice-cream, so long as we wrote a few letters from the alphabet. Though truthfully and regretfully, my memories of him are beginning to fade.

This terrifies me.

I deeply envy those who are able and willing to celebrate Father’s day — those who have both parents to embrace.

I am still navigating through my father’s death. Steering through life with his absence has been dismal. A never ending, unyielding and soul crushing feeling.

They say ‘Time heals everything’.

My response?

How much time? Because I certainly am not healed.

And I never will be. For anyone out there who is a part of the dead dad club, I hear you, I see you and I feel your pain. We can merely try our hardest to accept the cards that we have been so tragically dealt, and navigate through our, what really is… lifelong grief. Here’s to endurance and soldiering on.

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