You Haven’t Cried Til’ Your Dad’s Died.

I moved to Australia from New Zealand in 2018. I’ve been here for a few years and it’s starting to look like it might improve. It hasn’t been great, but that’s another tale.

If you’re a foreigner in Sydney, you’ll understand that it’s not the easiest city to mingle with.

March hit and like the rest of the world, we’re in lockdown. I’m still employed, so there’s that — #blessedtobebusy. My mental health isn’t doing great, apparently, a global pandemic is really triggering for my C-PTSD — Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. This is a fun mental condition that’s a result of ongoing traumatic experiences in someone’s life (remember this little snippet of information, things are about to really get good. By good, I mean, well, you’ll see.

So, I’m spiraling. It’s not cute. This was only in June — when we were young and naive about the seriousness of the pandemic when I was still under the impression that I’d be able to return to New Zealand in August to see my mama.

Wrong. So, so wrong.

Let’s fast forward to July. It was the 1st of July, the day before my birthday when I got a call from Mum. Dad has Cancer. He’s trapped in the Kiribati Islands where flights are banned because of Corona (we were still calling it Corona in July) and he has Cancer.

I met a nice stranger when I was howling on my front doorstep that night. She asked if I was okay and I said, in between tears and lying in a heap at the front door, “I’m fine, I just can’t get inside yet. I do have keys, I live here.” It’s important to let people know that you live at the place you’re having a breakdown in front of, so that you don’t look completely insane. I asked my friend to keep me company and she did. It made me think that she is going to be there for me during this process.

Mum and Dad were my whole family, just the three of us. Then Dad tore it apart and I haven’t spoken to him in four years. Him getting sick before we reconciled was a fear of mine.

It’s my birthday. It’s pretty miserable. I go and get my eyebrows done. If you have fierce brows, no one will see the sad eyes sheltering under them. Beyonce’s “If I Were A Boy” was playing on the speakers and I begin to tear up. That song doesn’t mean anything to me, so I found it amusing that it sparked emotion. The beauty therapist thought she was hurting me and apologised.

Spotify Wrapped told me that I listened to Hot Girl by Megan Thee Stallion 17 times the day after my birthday. This started the trend of only listening to music that didn’t have the ability to bring me down — mostly ratchet hip hop.

Brief interlude: I work as a copywriter at a behemoth of an advertising agency and it needs to be noted that they went above and beyond to support me when I told them I was struggling. If you work in advertising, you know this is preached not practised — #notalladagencies.

August arrives. Bubble doesn’t open. Dad’s finally in New Zealand. He still has Cancer and is deteriorating rapidly.

I moved into the most beautiful safe space with the aforementioned friend by the beach. I’m excited but wary about the move so I ask her, “are you going to be okay to be with me while I’m going through this?” By ‘this’ I mean being trapped in a country without my closest friends or any family to support me as my father runs towards the reaper. She said yes.

Things were great… If we ignore all the bad things that are happening, things are great. I’m trying my best. It isn’t always good enough and I accept that. I’d like to think that people are a little bit understanding of someone in my situation, though I’ve never been through it before, so I really don’t know what I’m doing. I start seeing a therapist every other week, averaging two sessions a paycheck because while necessary, sessions don’t come cheap. I have to push out the dates a lot.

Like the rest of us who have found ourselves working from home — my phone had become my entire world. Not the social media addiction my generation is known for, instead my phone briefs me, sends me emails, I brainstormed with my partner through chat and I kept in touch with my friends back home.

It also gave me bad news almost every single day. Dad’s condition is worse. Mum is struggling. The treasurer of Dad’s Estate (we’re already at that stage) has become one of my most common notifications and he’s telling me the things that he can’t break to Mum.

Every time I open messenger, I see Dad’s profile. He’s online and he knows I’m online. I panic and shut the app.

I touched on this earlier, but my folks aren’t together anymore — Dad’s a bit of a dick. Mum continued to look after him after everything he put her through. Which is a lot. Like my earlier years in Australia, that’s a whole other story. In short, she’s incredible. If you find yourself a woman like Sue, do not act like a Shaun about it. She’s top tier. And hot. I learnt the term MILF from a boyfriend who fancied her more than me.

I’m not sure what chapter of the pandemic we’re in now. I’d developed brain fog. If I didn’t write down what I did that day, I couldn’t remember it. But it was during this time that I started noticing a pattern — whenever I told my best friend (who I lived with) that something terrible had happened, she would leave me alone to go party. It’s a bit of a bad feeling but I get it: sad people aren’t fun. Sad People want their Mum but because of an unprecedented global pandemic, Sad People can’t be with their Mum and it just makes Sad People sadder.

So I got used to being alone and dealing with the constant bad. Call it a rite of passage or whatever. Trauma makes you funny so at least I’ll be laughing. Work was still being amazing. My phone friends didn’t leave me alone, but there’s something different about the physical company and reading words off a screen. Still, I couldn’t have done it without them.

It’s December, my favourite time of year. I get infected with the festive spirit from mid-November. December is all sugar and no pants, as in booze and nonsense. I had the most ridiculous argument with a friend I lived with in London. I claimed that she ruined Christmas because she came home drunk and ate all the chocolates out of the advent calendar I had bought her. In her defense, she did try very hard to close the windows up so I wouldn’t notice. Christmas this year lacked any joy for me.

The 11th of December I got a message from Mum asking if she could call me. Two things came to mind when I read that — either Dad had gotten worse or my cat of 18 years, Jessie, had died. If only three things came to mind, then it would have been a hat-trick.

A couple of days later Jessie was put down and Dad was put into Hospice.

I’m not okay. I’ve come to rely on what I’ve recently learned is called gallows humour. It makes everyone around me uncomfortable, but it makes me laugh about the situation and laughter is a priority.

I requested an exemption from managed isolation in New Zealand so that I could at least isolate at home instead of in a hotel alone while going through this. Even though I’ve felt alone through this experience, to have that possibility taken away from me altogether didn’t vibe well.

I needn’t have worried as my application was denied, apparently, my circumstances weren’t exceptional. Too bad I’m not a professional sportsman. Or the girlfriend of one.

In the middle of planning a funeral I can’t attend, I get the call.

It’s the 17th of December. My Dad has died.

He waited for my mother to be in the room. She held his hand and told him to go be with his Mum and then he died. This means a lot to me because I had sent a photo to him days earlier showing him my natural hair colour, which I inherited from his mother because I knew it’d make him happy. I feel closer to my Mum.

I don’t remember much after this. I do remember getting a phone call from an unknown number and thinking that it’s someone reaching out to me. It’s not, it’s a scammer. I must have sounded possessed as I hollered, “NOT NOW” down the line and hung up.

I don’t know what to do but I do know that I cannot be alone. I called a friend who is at work. She dropped everything and immediately came over to scoop me up. I’m not handling it well and it’s nice to have someone care for me. Everything becomes even foggier and that’s not because I downed a million bottles of wine.

But also, a little bit because of the wine.

This woman is great, she whisked me away to her family’s beach house and we had a good time. Walking the coast, crying, doing bootleg Bootcamp routines I stole from my gym, drinking wine, all the good things. There’s even a dog.

I attended my first ever funeral on December 22nd. It’s via Zoom. I hated Zoom all year, so it felt appropriate that this was my last one of 2020. Zoom Funerals are shit. There is zero closure. Whatever closure is. I’m yet to find out.

We made moves to spend Christmas with her family the following day and by now I can sense she’s feeling stressed. I can’t help with the long hours of driving as grief causes fatigue and messes with concentration. I want to help but I’m just not altogether there. We both came to the conclusion that it’s better for us to call it quits on this joint adventure by the end of Christmas day. There’re no hard feelings. I appreciate how she helped me and how she was there for me in a heartbeat. I completely understand that it’s 2020, everyone already has so much to deal with.

Besides, I was actually looking forward to coming home. Being allowed to sit in my grief and experience it properly in the safety of my own space. Especially since I was living with my best friend. I was a bit bummed to learn that she wasn’t planning on coming home from her night out to say hi, even for just a quick visit. I hadn’t seen her since the day before Dad died. We talked about this later and she said she already had plans and that’s when I realised that death in my life didn’t really fit in with other people’s plans.

It’s the week after Dad’s death, funeral, and a stressful break. I’m not my best but I’m trying. I’m working out, going for walks in the rain, crying a lot, and trying to do nice things like massages and saunas. Sounds dreamy if you ignore the dead Dad stuff. Flattie is carrying on with her own life — work, friends, dates. I try to give her space while also throwing hints that I need her. I make suggestions about things we could do together, but they don’t work around her schedule. When I hear this, I get a bit snappy. I hate hurting people’s feelings, I go out of my way to avoid confrontation, so this is a nasty side effect of the situation. I’m not proud of myself but I would like to think there’s some leeway with everything that’s happening.

The best part of that week for me was when we went grocery shopping together.

Covid 19 came back with a vengeance to New South Wales just before New Year’s and limited people to only 5 guests for their celebrations. Most of my friends are couples and weren’t planning on doing anything special because of the new rules. I expressed to my flatmate that I was sad to be alone for the night. She looked at me and said, “yeah.”

I think the blowing-up point was when her mother came round. I prepared myself for the post-parental passing niceties. Honestly, I was even a bit excited that a mum was going to be caring towards me.

I expected too much and disappointed myself.

She walked in complaining about her New Year’s plans and what she had to do, then about her Christmas day that she spent with family and friends. She walks past me, completely ignoring my existence. I try to comprehend what is happening. To quote Valentina of Drag Race royalty, “this doesn’t make sense with my fantasy.” Once she’s done moaning about spending time with her loved ones, she asks me how my Christmas was. I said, “pretty shit” and left the house. Not proud, but I had more compassion from the stranger that asked if I was okay the night I found out about Dad’s diagnosis. Grief causes anger. I wanted to fight her with my words, but I left because that’s not cute behaviour. If you have nothing nice to say, remove yourself from the situation. In my case, the house.

New Year’s Eve. Didn’t sleep a wink. Blood pressure was out of control. I’m stressed and depressed. My flatmate came home from walking with another friend of hers at 1 pm and I wasn’t doing great. She told me, “I just wish I knew what to do or say to help take the pain away.” I asked her to try and imagine what it was like to be in my shoes. I didn’t know what I needed to be said or done, I just needed people to think about what it would feel like for them and what they might need.

By the way, it’s company. I need company. I need someone to sit and watch shit TV with me, I need someone to drag me along while they do their chores, I need someone who chooses to spend time with me even though it’s not very fun for them.

I’m not having the time of my life either.

But also, I’m having the TIME of my life.

Shortly after this vulnerable exchange, my flatmate tells me she’s going to a party at 3 pm for New Years'.

I felt as though the hulk was ripping apart my chest. I was hit by an instant dizzy spell. I had to leave the house and collect myself. By collect myself, I mean spiral in the depths of despair as my ribcage was slowly torn open by a demon, setting free the inner voices screaming how worthless I am, how unwanted I am, how I should throw myself off a cliff because the people around me didn’t seem to care about what I am going through. I began to wonder if what I’m going through is even a big deal and I got confused. It sounds dramatic and it was, I don’t think I ever felt more alone and hurt than I did that day, crying in the public toilets at the beach. While in the cubicle, I sent a selfie to my friend captioned, “can’t talk, doing hot girl shit.”

I walked towards a cliff. I was done. I couldn’t keep trying.

I was sitting on the edge when I decided I need to give up on Australia and move home to New Zealand. In hindsight, I should have done this sooner. But I’m a fighter and I like to see how many rounds I can take; unfortunately, I’m blessed with ridiculous stamina — which is a blessing as the earliest possible date I can secure a spot in Managed Isolation is March 18th. Yikes.

It began to pour with rain as I was heading back. I was exhausted after working through that much emotion. I had also walked a very long way. I ordered an Uber.

My flatmate came home 48 hours later, wondering why I can’t look her in the eye. It’s hard to be around someone who made you feel like that.

We didn’t talk much the following week. I have anxiety about confrontation, but I also don’t really have anything to say. She wants to have a chat, which is good because I’d have avoided the elephant in the room til’ the cows came home. If you’re going to use clichés, be sure to use them both in the same sentence. New rule I just made up.

The Wednesday after New Year’s we sat down for dinner and she asked what’s going on. I tried not to cry because somewhere in my life, I decided that letting people know that they hurt you is a weakness. But I cried telling her how I felt. She told me that the week before New Year’s made her feel like she was walking on eggshells, that I was too sensitive to be around. I just remember looking incredulous and yelling, “MY DAD DIED LAST WEEK.” I told her I’d be moving back to New Zealand in March to be with my close friends and Mum.

She then left for a week saying she needs space. I didn’t feel very good about myself for making everything so bad that she can’t be around me.

I quit my job the next week, on January 14th, Dad’s 60th birthday. My boss was so understanding.

This man is a total dude. He invited me to stay with his family over a weekend because he was worried about me being alone while I was in the depths of bad brain. He knows how to earn loyalty.

Now when I open my Messenger app, I feel shocked that I don’t see Dad’s profile. I close it before reality sets in. I open it again and read our message exchange. I hadn’t realised that he never saw the last message I wrote him. It says, “I love you Dad.” And he didn’t read it. I shake the emotions away and put my phone down.

Surely everything is going to be cool now. Every hard conversation has been had. There can be no more hits. The cat’s dead. The Dad’s dead. The job in Australia is over. The friendship’s died. The bank account is destroyed. The heart is broken, and the brain is fried.

I imagine this is how a boxer feels in the ring as he’s squaring up against an opponent, one he has no chance of beating. He’s repeatedly getting knocked to the ground, wondering why his brain continues to pick him back up. “Just stay down,” his body pleads, “let me rest.”

I feel like I’m at the end of my match and now all I have to do is ride out this time until I’m in that hotel. For something I was once dreading, I can’t wait. The two weeks when I have nothing to do, nothing I can do. I don’t even have to worry about feeding myself, a skill I was never great at and have definitely let slide over the past year.

I’ve still been taking knocks; emotionally, physically, financially. I’m laughing and crying through the blows because hopefully when I land in New Zealand, my brain will finally let my body rest.

By Claire Joy