I wrote a letter to my father whom I haven't seen in fifteen years and morn the loss of everyday. I decided to throw the letter away, because my father is a paranoid schizophrenic and regardless if I write him a letter, show up on his door step or continue to do nothing at all my father isn't coming back. I'd like to give you some history, if you'd care to read on. My dad got sick the year I was born. Prior to that, I'm told he was one of the coolest people most of my mother's brothers and sisters had ever met. He was a silversmith, he loved good music, was well read, intelligent and dressed impeccably. My father had lived a hard life and in the late 60s and early 70s found himself spending time hanging out in Harvard Square experimenting with drugs. His doctors believe its that social drug use that lead to his mental illness. My parents divorced when I was 3 solely because his mental illness made it unsafe for him to be in the house. Although when he was on his medication, we spent time with him, because it was the mental illness that made him unsafe, not my father, my father was not a bad man. For 15 years if my father was on his meds we spent every Sunday with him and visited every holiday. My mother raised us to believe that there was nothing abnormal about our situation, my father was simply sick. If he wasn't taking his medication we had to stop seeing him until he started again, usually that included him going to the hospital for a few days or weeks. But that was ok, if he was in the hospital he was being medicated so we would just visit him there. My mother raised us without the stigma that surrounds mental illness, so none of that mattered to me. But after 15 years of playing with a severe mental illness, the schizophrenia won. Every time a schizophrenic goes off their medication and falls back into insanity, they fall further away from the person they were and can't get that part of themself back. The last time my brother and I saw him was the Christmas I was 15, he was off his meds, talking to himself and just not well. My brother made the executive decision that we wouldn't see him until he got back on them. After that he just became progressively worse, he was kicked out of the group home he was living at for noncompliance and decided that living on the streets would be a better choice. My father was one of those "crazy homeless" people you see walking around talking to themselves. I don't know how long he lived like that, but it seemed like years. I don't know how we got him off the streets, I think my mother may have gone to court and had him committed but I honestly can't remember. Since then I haven't spoken to him. Its not by choice, I would literally give my sight to have my father back, but he has told his case worker he "has no family" and either he believes that or isn't capable of maintaining relationships with us. I don't know which and its really to painful to sit and ponder over, although at times I do. I've seen him from time to time over the past 15 years. When he was on the streets I saw him frequently, less so when he had a place to live and of late, not at all. My heart is broken over it, but I was blessed with the best mom on the face of the earth and an amazing family who understands why I may never stop grieving the loss of my dad. I don't know that writing that letter was as cathartic as I thought it would be, I think counseling is what will really get me on the road to moving through the pain, but I think it was the start I needed to getting some of my feeling toward him on paper.
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