My Dad Died, So Why Aren’t I Sad?

Photo by Spencer Backman on Unsplash

“How do you feel, Sharon?” Dr. Griffin asks me.

It’s my first day back at therapy since the funeral last week. I feel pressure to tell him what he expects to hear — that I’m inconsolable, that I’m hanging on by a thread.

“Honestly, I haven’t felt anything. Maybe a little anxiety.”

“What is it you’re anxious about?”

“My lack of despair, for one thing. I should be devastated right now, shouldn’t I?

“Do you wish you were?”

“Well, my dad just died and I haven’t even cried. Last night, I tried putting his favorite song on, staring at a bunch of old photos. Didn’t feel a thing.”

“Everyone deals with grief in their own way,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s what I keep telling myself. But there’s this other part of me that’s like, ‘no, that’s bullshit.’ That’s just something we tell sociopaths to make them feel better about themselves.”

“Have you ever had someone close to you die before?”

“No, I’ve been pretty lucky. I did have a cat that died when I was eight. His name was Sylvester.”

“How did you handle that? Did you cry?”

“Yeah, actually — now that you mention it. I was in shambles for weeks.”

“Why do you think you reacted so differently back then?”

“I’m not really sure,” I tell him. “I guess it’s because I was a little kid, you know, and I…”

“What?”

“I loved that cat...”