Kaytee Smith
Jul 25, 2017 · 5 min read

I will never forget the morning my sister called to say something was wrong with our Dad. She said my brother had received a frantic phone call around midnight. That Dad didn’t sound right, wasn’t acting himself. I immediately called my brother. He said Dad kept saying he was going away, he told my brother where documents and keys were.

None of us could get to his home quickly so we called the police. An hour later my sister called crying, she said Dad was dead, he had taken his own life. I sat in disbelief. Complete and utter disbelief. The tears started to flow, painful full tears, I gasped for air. Every part of me felt forced into a vacuum. The light in the room was blinding, the images in front of me blurred. All I could think was - what the fuck happened?

I started packing my bags. I frantically cried and shoved clothing simultaneously. I told my husband I had to go, I had get to my sister’s and figure out what happened. An hour later I was in the car for a five hour journey. I started calling family, telling them my dad had passed. I wasn’t ready to say the word. I was not ready to tell people it was a suicide.

As I drove, I began to put things to order in my mind. Did he have a will? Did I know what he wanted done with his body? Where would we have a funeral? When I got to my sister’s house I knew I had to be strong for her. She told me what the police had found. He was on his couch. His house was in order. There was no note. He had done it with a gun, and the body would be taken to a lab for an autopsy and we would need to make arrangements for him afterward. My sister and I both stared at each other and I knew she was thinking the same thing. Why did he do it?

This is the thing. We didn’t know why. We knew he had moments when he would get down, but he always bounced back. He lived alone, and he had a recent injury at work and was unable to continue working. He was trying to retire early, and seemed excited about it.

My brother said he never elaborated, he just kept saying he was going away.

Immediately, I started to think of reasons. He mixed his meds with alcohol. He took too many of his meds. He had a terminal illness that he didn’t tell us about. Perhaps he injured his head in the accident. All of these things would be found false when we received the coroner’s report. He was healthy, and there were no medications in his system that would warrant a reaction. He did it because he wanted to go away.

My Dad had everything in order, just like he said he would.

The next day we met at his home. What we didn’t realize is that when you live in a small rural community there is no clean-up crew. They had put a sheet over the couch. My brother and brother-in-law took the furniture out and to the dump. We scoured through documents, his home, getting things together, coming up with a plan. And during all of this I was disconnected. I knew I could not stop and REALLY think about what was going on, because I wouldn’t be able to do what I needed to do.

The phone calls started, and I had to tell people what happened. If they assumed it was a heart attack or something else I didn’t correct them. Some would press further, and I would tell them he killed himself. There would be an awkward silence, and they would either say, I am so sorry or do you know why. I would respond, he said he wanted to go away.

The next few days go by in a whirlwind. Dealing with his finances, the will, the funeral home. Everyone is shocked, they don’t understand. They are confused and bewildered. It’s around Thanksgiving, and I can’t find a pastor to speak at his memorial service. I have to write a eulogy and find a home for his two dogs. It starts to sink in that he went away, and he isn’t coming back. This isn’t a dream and I am never going to see my father again.

My Dad didn’t talk about his feelings.

Over the next couple of weeks, I start to piece together my father’s life. Stories from family, ex-girlfriends, and friends are shared with me. Things I had never heard, haunting and tragic things.

Through conversations I would find out that mental illness and addiction was rampant in his family. That aunts, uncles, cousins, had had depression, bipolar disorder, alcoholism, drug addiction. I knew that his side of the family had struggled with these things, but not to the degree that I would later find out.

We would discover that the gun he used to take his own life had belonged to his grandfather. That same grandfather had attempted to take his own life with it, but had not succeeded.

My Dad wanted to go away. He had depression. He had found ways to cope throughout life, and one day he realized he couldn’t do it anymore. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t angry at him. I was furious, and there are days when I still am. Why didn’t he reach out? Why didn’t he get help?

It’s been eight months and I know I will never really know the exact answer to a lot of these questions, but what I do know is that he loved us very much. He did the best he could, and he was suffering. Through this experience I have realized so many things. Depression can affect anyone. It can ebb and flow like a wave. It can creep through generations, silent and strong.

I needed to write this, because I am just now processing what happened. I am sure this will be one of many posts. For me this was a wake-up call. It opened my eyes to my own mental health and well-being, and of those around me.

Hug your loved ones. Tell them you love them everyday. If you are feeling down let someone know. If you need to talk I’m here. I am not going away.

Love you Dad.

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