On Finding Compassion

On Finding Compassion

and spontaneous tattoos

A few weeks ago, I participated in the 16 mile Overnight Suicide Walk in honor of my father, who I lost to suicide when I was 16. 

I think what the walk gave me, on some level, was a sense of compassion. It may sound completely horrible and insensitive. It was not easy to grow up with my father.

I know my father loved me. He wrote letters to me when I was a baby, that I didn't see until adulthood. He doted on me, my love of books, my chattiness, my stubborn-ness. He worried I'd inherit the anger that ultimately consumed him. (I did, in some ways.) He taught me to throw a spiral, bait a fishing hook, take care of animals, and gave me his hand-me-down Matchbox cars.

Simultaneously, my father could be scary. He was unpredictable, especially his anger. Dad's anger ebbed and flowed, and it took next to nothing to set him off. My dad's brain was tightly wound, consumed by his own fears and anger. 

My dad's spontaneous rage made him a difficult man. He didn't know how to control his temper, he had no outlets, and I know now that he suffered a great deal. If his truck broke down, if his shirt got a hole, if anything went wrong in his day, he would take it out in a screaming fit of rage, directed at someone else in the family. 

His rage overshadowed his love. When I think back, it is harder to remember kindness than it is to remember anger, because anger was the emotion my father expressed most comfortably, and most often. It is hard to feel compassion for a man, in charge of my well-being, who communicated primarily through a raised voice.

It is hard to feel compassion for someone who passed on so many of my negative traits. Someone whose erratic behavior led to me always walk on eggshells, led me to tolerate shenanigans from others for far too long because they had been so normalized, led me to apologize for taking up too much space, for making decisions without consulting someone...

This sounds harsh, but I literally can't imagine what my life would be like if he were in it. Would I have talked him into seeking mental health treatment? Would he be proud of what I am working towards, or derided me for having a family member give me a loan to start a business? Would we speak at all, or would his anger have separated us permanently? 

It is a challenge to feel compassion for someone who disappeared when I yelled back, who left me fearful and anxious for a lifetime, and who left me fatherless. 

So here I am, June 16, surrounded by people who have lost and struggled. It took me back to my darkest moments. While I was never really suicidal, I certainly felt hopeless, alone, unwanted...and...nothing. I felt crippling nothing-ness. Paralyzing nothingness. 

I think of the pain that someone must be in to make that ultimate decision, and I can find a sliver of compassion. Maybe our lives would've been different if he had access to more adequate mental health treatment. Maybe it would've been different if he had some sort of outlet for his emotions- besides raging. 

I work on compassion in therapy a lot. Mostly, it has to do with practicing compassion towards myself, but it also includes compassion for others. Compassion, in my case, is a journey.

In my moment of compassion, purely spontaneously, I did something instead of yell or scream. I got a little tattoo, with a suicide prevention symbol and my dad's initials. My dad's influence is with me, for better or worse. But I'm trying to cope a little bit better than he did.