To My Tweenage Self
Dear Kid, I know you’re tired.
It’s late. You’ve got school in the morning.
You’re grounded again & you know someone’s gonna sigh real loud when the phone bill comes & you took the call when they forbid you to, again.
Answer it anyway.
Pick up every time you can. Even when it’s awkward. Even when it’s embarrassing. Even when you pretend you don’t care. Even when you absolutely do.
You don’t know this yet, & you’re not supposed to, but those calls are oxygen for him. I think a part of you does know. Ever since his brother took his life when you were 8, you’ve known your dad was going to join him. Not in a way that makes you responsible. Not in a way that means you could save him. Just in the way that your voice proves he exists to someone who matters. The way he introduced you to old friends he hadn’t seen in years the first Father’s Day you got to spend with him in nearly a decade.
When he calls too late.
When he’s drunk.
When he’s high.
When he’s both.
When he’s got some guy there nodding at your school picture like it’s sacred art. Telling you not to talk to boys.
That’s him saying your name into the dark so it doesn’t swallow him whole.
You don’t need to understand why the calls stop sometimes. You don’t need to understand where he’s been or what a locked ward means or why four months feels like a lifetime & a blink at the same time. But, you do. And you’re the friend who calls 9-1-1 to save a friend, who drives a sister-in-law to the ER in the middle of the night. Who sleeps in shifts to keep watch on troubled kids. You definitely don’t need to know he almost didn’t make it, or that you were the first number he dialed when he did. You confided in your journalism teacher. He was kind. He told you it was brave of your dad to admit that to you & that meant he loved you.
Just know this: the fact that he finds ways to call matters.
The payphones.
The borrowed phones.
The spare change scraped together to buy three more minutes.
Staying in touch is hard right now. Not like it will be as I write this. It takes effort. It takes intention. It takes wanting something badly enough to work for it. And he wants you. Loudly. Repeatedly. For decades.
Even on the days you don’t want to talk, let it matter that he tries.
People around act like love only counts if it’s clean & functional & properly scheduled. Fits into a sitcom template of normalcy. They’ll be wrong. This love is messy & inconvenient & absolutely real.
Also, listen closely, because this part matters most:
You are not his lifeline.
You are not his last chance.
You are not the thing that could have changed the ending.
He was walking toward that ending long before you were born. You’ll learn this & so much more from siblings you didn’t know he or you had until after he was gone. You were not the cause, & you were never the cure. You were a pause. A bright one. A mostly pleasant diversion that he clung to because it felt like warmth.
That is not a burden. That is a truth.
Years from now, he’ll sit on a shelf in the box Fed-Ex delivered him in. The kids will joke & call him Grandpa-in-a-box because kids find a way to make death livable. They’ll never hear his voice on the phone. They’ll never get the calls.
But they’ll have his eyes.
All of them.
Just like you.
And you’ll remember the ringing phone in the quiet house, & how you answered it anyway.
Treasure that.
You already do, even if you don’t know how to say it yet.
~AK
* * * * *
If this brought stuff up for you:
You’re not broken & you’re not alone. If you or someone you love is struggling with suicidal thoughts, emotional crisis, or just needs to talk to a real human right now, you can call or text 988 in the US to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. It’s free, confidential, & available 24/7.
If you’re outside the U.S., local crisis lines are listed at
https://findahelpline.com
. If you’re in immediate danger, please call your local emergency number.
Reaching out isn’t weakness. It’s survival.
What a thoughtful reminder. Thank you!