All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(60)

You need to work at your own pace. I know it must be so difficult for you, being that he is so entwined with your work. You know how bummed he would be if this got in the way of your fucking masterpiece though. Take all that work ethic he ingrained in you and do what you are meant to be doing. Get it girl, I know you will. But remember if you need a personal day, you need a personal day. Just don’t let those add up to weeks and then months. I am not concerned about your work. You will do great things. You are destined to.

Waking up is the worst part because you have to remind yourself. Rather, it’s that mean self-sabotaging side of you that is hitting you with that as soon as you wake. The only thing that can really help this is to start thinking of everything you are grateful for when you feel hit down by his absence first thing. Hey, you are waking up, you are alive, you have a home, you have love, you are not hungry, you are incredibly taken care of by this universe. I know this is some new-agey shit, but it is completely true Erin. You will have to eventually replace this grief with appreciation and understanding.

The wine is really difficult, because I want you to be able to have a glass, but at the same time i really don’t. Keep going to your AA meetings. At all family functions I typically am the only one drinking, and my family watches me so closely because I mimic my mother. This past Christmas I didn’t drink because it wasn’t worth upsetting my family, because they are right to be concerned. Go to your meetings. I will be happy to join you again.

When i caught myself feeling bad for myself, i had to remember that I was so fucking lucky to have my mother at all. Fuck, even to have my mother into early adulthood IS FUCKING REMARKABLE in this world. Kids are orphaned everywhere without ever experiencing a drop of support or parental love. You know?

Literally none of my friends had lost a parent when my mom passed. It was/is so isolating and I would feel fucking LIVID when someone would complain about a parent or even talk about them at all. These situations are the ones where you have to be kinder than you feel. Be tender. Everyone will lose their parents, even though somehow we convince ourselves it will never happen. And like I said to you before, you are standing face-first with your nightmare. The other ones don’t know it yet and have to subconsciously fear it until their time comes to say goodbye. Be tender Erin, it is not their fault and they don’t have any idea yet.



I used my mouse to highlight all the words that she’d given me and create a new Google document. I thought for a moment and then typed in “Sad Girl’s Guide” as the title in the upper left-hand corner. “Tender.” It was not something I ever thought about. How to be kind when I only felt rage? Her words buoyed me and kept me afloat.

In addition to my new Google doc, I printed the email out and carefully hid the pages in the back section of my leather-enclosed notebook, the same notebook I’d taken to hear him talk on the night he died. It houses the last words I would hear him speak onstage. The next page contains my hastily scribbled notes for his funeral arrangements.

But even as I tried to process and reconcile my grief, the truth remained that I felt deeply envious of anyone who still had parents. It was the kind of irrational emotion that made me slam down my computer screen, walk away mid-conversation, and close myself off in my room. It’s like a blindfold is removed after the death of your parent; you no longer view the world as open.

I abhorred the big holidays and the family portraits, my eyes narrowing whenever I came into close physical or digital contact.

This quiet fury was not short-lived. Even a year later, I surprised myself with my inability to exist around women and their fathers. An image of my friend Sam and her smiling dad popped up onscreen. She’s the kind of cool, aloof girl with bangs that I always wanted to be. Skinny long legs without trying, with a freelance filmmaking career that she mostly liked. The photos burned me up—the dad and daughter duo just looked so happy in the woods, enjoying each other’s company. I clicked on the upper right-hand tab and saw UNFOLLOW SAM. I paused for a second, deliberating whether or not I should excommunicate her from my digital life just for the sin of having a father. I clicked on UNFOLLOW as I lied to myself with the pretense of practicing self-care. The truth was that it was too painful to bear witness to the hallmark moments I no longer had access to.

This is what they don’t discuss with you after loss. The rage that bubbles up inside you, creating further divisions in your already fractured self. Loss turned me into someone who had a hard time functioning around other family units. I asked my sister if she felt the same way.

“Depends on the day, but mostly I just grin and bear it.”

I marveled at her ability to extend beyond her comfort zone, refusing to let grief dictate how she related to the people around her. I vowed, like most days, to try to be more like my wombmate.

I headed over to my friend Zoe’s apartment with a bag full of yarn—I’d decided I would like to take up knitting. I used to see people doing it all the time in church basements, and I needed something to do with my hands. We clicked PAUSE on the high-pitched voice squawking at us from the YouTube knitting tutorial and took a brownie break. She asked if I’d reached out to Sam. I shook my head dismissively. “Nah, I haven’t talked to her in ages. She barely remembers me.” Zoe sensed that information was missing and told me that Sam’s dad had died unexpectedly after a brain operation. I instantly felt hideous for blocking her. He’d been having an operation and she’d wanted him to feel supported, hence all the pictures.