My father died two weeks ago. A lot of people around me have talked about how surreal his death has felt, how they have to keep reminding themselves it happened. It’s been hard, having such a different reaction.

For me, from the moment I was told, it all felt very real. I’ve been irrevocably changed in ways I never really could have understood a month ago. I’m a fairly empathetic person and I really thought that from seeing what other people have gone through that I would now how this would feel, but I didn’t. This is just so different.

It feels like there has been enough time that I should’t burst out crying anymore, but I do. It’s not the violent sudden outbursts of tears that made it so I couldn’t be around people for the first two weeks, but whenever I sit for a moment and stare into space my mind rolls over things it shouldn’t and I can’t stop the tears.

I think about how hard things had been for him, I roll my mind over his last ten minutes of life until I start to feel like I’ll need to check myself into a hospital, and I think about how scared I am that I’ll end up like him in the worst ways.

There are a lot of great things about my father, but his temper wasn’t one of them, and I’m always scared I’ll get older and it’ll all become unmanageable.

I spoke at his funeral, for roughly ten minutes. I almost decided not to speak. Whenever I embarass myself, I never seem to get over it. I think about things I did and said in kindergarten and beat myeslf up over how stupid I acted-I felt like if I went up at his funeral and said the wrong thing that it would just be something else I would regret and have to carry with me forever. My husband convinced me that if I didn’t go up I WOULD regret it and so I did, and I don’t regret doing it at all. I think my speech went over fairly well, really. I told a lot of funny stories about my father, and how he loved to laugh.

I haven’t talked enough about his death, I can’t stand to tell people and have them look me in the face, and because of that it still feels awkward to talk about it. I’d like to share the closing paragraphs of what I said at my father’s funeral though, because I think it gives a good idea of how I feel about things at this point.

When I tried to think of what to say today, my mind ran wild over memories of my father. Listening to “I’m Not Your Stepping Stone” and jumping on his bed. Spending WEEKS trying to teach me to ride my bicycle without my training wheels. Playing connect four at the cabin. Helping me build forts in the woods. But how do I tell you about these glimpses, these moments I see in my head, and all I feel about my father, and what all this means about who he was to me?

My father was fun. It’s hard to find photos of him NOT smiling, and I’d find it hard to believe if when any of you close your eyes and picture him he’s not grinning. Whenever bad things happened, and with four kids, dogs, and moving every few years, of course things happened, we found the humor in these things and laughed about them always. Like my father said earlier, nothing is that serious you can’t laugh at it.

If I hadn’t grown up with my father, if I hadn’t learned this attitude from him, then everything I like about myself wouldn’t exist, and I don’t know who I’d be, or how I’d ever get through today. I’m grateful to have known my father, and to have laughed with him.

My father didn’t know what happens after you die, but on a sunny day on a drive in the woods he told me that it’s all just too incredible that this all came together to believe there isn’t something else we just don’t know about.

I hope wherever he went, he is laughing.

It’s funny how that last part SOUNDS like such a great thing, but I recognize that twinge of fear in my stomach.

I guess the best way to explain it is if you were born with a tumor on your arm. It’s a terrible thing, it’s killing you, it’s hideous. People give you lots of platitudes about how this tumor will make you stronger and a better person, but the truth is that when it comes time to cut the thing off no one else hesitates even for a moment, finally, you have an answer! You will be rid of this tumor one and for all!  And while you hate the tumor for everything, you have a hard time getting around the idea of cutting off something you’ve always had. It’s a big part of who you are, and how will you be without it?

Bizarre, the things I’m scared of. Bizarre.

My crazy adventures have all been my unique experiences peering into other people’s lives.

I feel a need to write these things down and let them out. I want to write them down and show other people the things I see here-but it feels like such a strange betrayal to put these things to paper.

Most of these people did terrible things to me. The things I feel I can’t say, I can’t tell you about that I desperately want to-are all of the worst. Why am I so scared to betray my father by telling you that after I broke the cookie jar lid he chased me and then told me I’d better stay away because he knew he’d kill me if he could? Why do I feel like I’m betraying my mother by telling you about the pure evil insanity I’ve seen in her eyes?

Despite how horrific these moments are, they are also intimate. I don’t have moments of sweet intimacy with my parents, I don’t remember being held and told how wonderful I was-the only personal moments of connection I had with my parents were horrifying.

And so I would guess where other people would feel it a betrayal to tell you about how their parents sobbed, snot dripping from their noses and hearts aching when they moved out and went off to college, I feel it a betrayal to tell you about the time my dad got drunk and tried to run over deer in the back yard, or the stories of how (so far) three or their four daughters have moved out at sixteen.