Do my girls run the world?
By: Krystal Feirman
Tags: Parents, Love Letters, Dads, Suicide

Do my girls run the world? Say, hell yeah! It’s hard being a lady these days. Thanks to the rise of feminism, we have not just each other to compete with, but men as well. So, what is a girl to do when she wasn’t really raised by a man? Or at least the one man that could help guide her through these rocky waters we endure in life? That man I am referring to, is none other than her father of course. People can negate the actual need for a male role model, saying love is all we need. But is it?

I was raised by two very strong, independent women that always told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up! Our family was the kind that ate dinner together every night, all 5 of us gathered around our dining room table at 6:30pm sharp. No excuses allowed. My grandfather lived with us and would often cook up a storm. I mean, king crab legs, lobster fra diavolo, chicken cutlet parmesan. You name it, and he made it. Grandpa did the best he could to fill in those shoes. The size-nines, that no longer aired out in the corridor of our three-family home.

The size-nines just so happened to be strung out on opiates, and often found themselves locked up behind bars or in rehab facilities. Sometimes those size-nines, would show up on the weekends and we would go to the UA movie theater in Sheepshead Bay and watch double features; while snacking on microwavable pizza and nachos with cheese. Other times those size-nines stood at the altar, where he was married three times over. Or that one-time, those size-nines, took us to Great Adventure and threatened to rip the heart out of an innocent 15-year-old kid, who refused to let us on the roller coaster, because I failed to meet the height requirement. A bit harsh Ty.

On some mornings, I would hear him walking down the vast hallway in our home where his size-nines would greet me in my bedroom. And he would sing good-morning to me as he opened the window shades to let in the light, while telling me how smart I was and how excited he hoped I am for another full day of learning. It was on these mornings, I would cry as he drove me to school and beg him for a day of leisure, just so we could play together. It was on these mornings, my dad would fill my heart with so much love, I could combust at the seams. It was on these mornings, that I had a dad. Sometimes, those size-nines would bring me home flowers to show me he loved me.

Years passed, and trust was broken. What’s a girl to do without trust? Who can love her if she is broken and the one who is responsible for that brokenness can’t ever fix it? What we do is, we get the fuck up and keep on moving. We are responsible for our own happiness, and while I would’ve loved to be that girl, whose father is still around, I am not.

Rather, I had a grandfather who helped raise two of his five grandchildren. An Aunt who lived upstairs and offered me kindness, support and friendship. A mom, who fulfilled both roles, as mom and dad. A woman who worked tirelessly, to support her family and whisked her children off to exotic vacations and to summer camp, every year.

I used to think that if my friends’ parents were still married, then they were better than I. As a child, I would often idealize what my home should look like internally and how different my life was in comparison to my peers. But what I have learned is, there’s no such thing as normal or perfect. We as people, on most days do our very best to create that perfection for ourselves. Within the world, we live in and our village that encompasses that support and safety.

See, my dad lived for 66-years. But he didn’t really live. His sadness took the best of him. The bright lights that would emanate from his sparkling green eyes, when he would talk of things that brought him joy and passion; such as music, learning, sports and friendships, diminished and no longer sparkled. They had become sullen and grey. Life was too hard for him. He was too weak to fight this disease. The opiates had sucked him dry.

Eddie, did the best he could, but unfortunately his best was never good enough. To say that therapists haven’t had a field day with me would be an understatement, but regardless of peoples’ faults, we are just trying our best. So, while my life was the opposite of “cookie cutter” I am beyond grateful for the time my dad gave to me. Through the thick and the thin and through the worst of it all, I know he loved me,, through all his shortcoming.

So, on the anniversary of his death, I remind all my beautiful and strong ladies whom grew up similarly without the help of their dad, to know that you are OK. You are loved. You are not broken. You are strong, and when you do love, you will do it with all your soul and won’t ever take it for granted, because you know all too well, a life without it.

Suicide is not the only option. I was skeptical to advise people outside of my inner circle about how my dad died, but hiding his secret feels wrong. If you’re ever afraid to get sober because you don’t believe you are strong enough to do it, please believe that you can. You just must want it bad enough. We all love you desperately to help.

I wish my dad wasn’t weak. I wish he had more fight, I wish he knew he was loved. Maybe, love is all we need.