I lied. I wasn’t ready.
I wrote part one of dad’s story in October, and just like when writing about Mom, it’s been five months since I approached it again. I drafted it. Did some editing through the last few months. But that publish button just leers at me like, ‘do it. You won’t.’
It’s just hard. It’s hard to put it all into words, even though words are what I’m good at. And truthfully, it’s the feelings that the words evoke that are hard. To go back and think about all the emotions I had during those hard times, all the worry and anger and sadness. . . It’s hard on me mentally. And remembering the good is hard, too. It’s hard knowing I took the time I had for granted when I was young, I had no concept that my time with my dad was so short.
Here recently I encountered an individual who like me, braved the daunting task of bearing their soul to the public. Knowing that battle all too well, I reached out to share my own story. I specifically targeted the telling of moms story because that one was the hardest for me to tell. But before I shared those links, I read the posts again.
And here I am, staring at the draft of part one of dad’s story, another hard thing to talk about.
It’s good solid writing. I convey everything very well. But hitting that ‘publish’ button. . . Man. Do I have that strength? I really just don’t know.
I know part of it comes from the fact that my dad was a very private man. He fought his battles alone, and despised the idea of social media.
It’s not my story to tell.
But he isn’t here to tell it, and it has so much value.
Am I betraying him? Is it betrayal if it helps me heal, if it helps another person with their battle?
Why didn’t I feel guilty telling mom’s story, but am terrified to tell dad’s?
Just know it’s there. Just know that I have part one written and waiting. I think I’ll know when it’s right to share, if ever.
And whether this is a loyalty thing or a me not being ready thing, that remains to be seen.
I didn’t forget. It just isn’t time yet.