Alicia’s story

I lost my dad to suicide when I was 7. Being so young meant that grief shaped my life, identity, personality in a way that’s difficult to quantify, but undoubtedly true. 

I have treasured but limited memories of life with him, yet I can remember the day I learnt that he’d died with vivid clarity. Often it feels like my entire childhood was defined by that day. Before and after. With dad and without dad. 

I always felt separate from my peers at school: older, lonelier, weighed down by things that shouldn’t be on any child’s radar. I’ve never known whether I was truly grieving HIM, or grieving the idea of him. He never knew who I grew up to be, but I felt his absence nonetheless.

My teenage years in particular were tough. Both me and my mum battled severe mental health issues in the years following the loss of my dad. Eventually, we both pulled through and now have the happy and stable lives I wasn’t always sure were on the cards for us. 

But it doesn’t mean it goes away. That’s what I don’t think people always understand. Grieving is an active process, it’s not something you do until it’s over and done with. 

I’ve grieved numerous times as different versions of myself: as a 7 year old that didn’t understand, as an older child who began to grasp what really happened, as a teenager who felt angry and out of control, as a young adult desperate to know if he would be proud of me. And now, at 27, having come to terms with his story, and beginning to figure out my own.

My dad’s birthday was a few days ago, on the same day the football team I support because of him were playing an important game.

That morning my mum called to ask if I was okay (she does this on every birthday and anniversary), then that evening I attended the game with her and my stepdad. Whilst we play at a new stadium he never got to visit, there’s a plaque in memory of him there which makes me feel close to him.

We lost. I wondered to myself what my dad would have to say about it. But I can’t answer that. Whilst I know he took me to my first game when I was 3, and to many after that, I don’t really remember so I can’t even begin to imagine how he would respond to a football game.

Whilst lacking in specifics, over the years I’ve built a picture of him in my mind. A compilation of my hazy memories and stories from others. For me, my dad is a mosaic. An imaginary person built from different people’s perceptions of the same man. 

Talking about lost loved ones is so important. I’m so grateful that people have always been willing to say his name around me. To share memories. Without that, the space that my dad occupies in my life would be a void. 

Instead, I know that I’m like him in many ways and not in others. I share his football team, his dimpled smile, his intelligence, his love of the musical Les Misérables, perhaps also his pessimism at times. I don’t think he would have liked my tattoos and I will never be able to cook like he could. But that’s okay. 

Almost 20 years later and I think I’ve done what younger me wanted - to make him proud. Whilst I still have mental health challenges, I’ve fought really hard to get better. I have graduated from both an undergrad and a masters degree, I work full time, I have a house with my boyfriend who I think my dad would have liked, I watched my mum finally rediscover happiness and walked her down the aisle. Once I would have said that all of this felt impossible, but it isn’t.

I love my dad. I don’t know him, but I love him. And I miss him. You can never eradicate grief, time doesn’t heal all wounds. 

But you can rebuild a life around it. You can fill the space until the emptiness doesn’t feel so crushing. You can honour their memory as best you can. You can love and live and thrive in the wake of loss.