A letter to my daughter

by | Jun 17, 2016 | Guest Bloggers

This letter was written by a grieving father in memory of his

daughter, a UVic student who passed away by suicide

…You

I love you.

Always have and always will.

Ever since you appeared as that little smiling baby with a perfectly round head. And your name, translated as “to shine” was such a perfect description of the Sun you were, warming all our hearts, giving us a beacon of light, of hope – no matter how dark or difficult our paths. And basking in your warmth, in the light that you shone on us, we never looked to see the darkness behind.

I remember with fierce clarity the love I felt for you; the peace that was in the room – that cold north Yukon December night – when we sat side by side staring at the warm fire with the new log house shell around us, listening to Eddie Vedder’s voice on the soundtrack of Into the Wild. It was on the playlist you made for me on the little iPod. How did you then, and seemingly always, know what exact songs to pick that would speak to both of us so strongly so together. You sought out those special moments, in your soft way intuitively invited me in, to share in the bond that you wanted and needed. And when you were struggling under your own burden, the weight getting heavier and heavier until you must have felt your knees buckle, you still kept on giving, loving, never asking, and never wanting. Just trusting that we who loved you would step in and help. But we didn’t. You gave me clues, I know that now. The music became softer, more introspective, the tone of the playlists you made me changed. I didn’t act; I thought you were just going through a different phase of your developing adulthood. But you were telling me that things were changing, that your journey was heading off into a different direction.

We loved to road-trip, you and I. Remember that epic 3-day journey up north with the 36 foot U-Haul truck? Your task was simple – keep the music going, keep the conversation going. You did both, keeping me awake as we drove through southern, then northern BC, the Rockies, Muncho Lake, Teslin & finally arriving in the Yukon. I felt overwhelmed on arrival; you gave me a hug and said “I know you are going to be so happy here”. Other road-trips, different destinations, different reasons. One of the last ones we took together was just a day drive out to Skagit Valley, you dipped your toes in the cold water and squealed like only you could. We listened to Coldplay’s ‘Square One’ – I used to play it for you or send you the first few lines on text because I thought it was uplifting and motivating: “…you’re in control is there anywhere you want to go?” Not realizing that for you the more relevant part of the song was then end: “…or are you stuck in square one?”

You were the most intelligent human being I have ever known. You were so caring, accommodating. In clear refrain that was what your high school friends all said in their tributes to you. I cannot describe the feeling of having to accept a little box of ashes in my community mailbox – end row, middle box – sent via FedEx because of the distances involved, as being your final manifestation of your earthly presence. That is not you, it cannot be you. You, your Spirit, your Being is around me now. I feel it now whenever the wind starts blowing strongly and moves the trees around – I can almost hear you calling out my name, the way you used in that happy little voice that was able to push my Re-Set button with instant effect, causing me to break into a smile. Will I hear you calling out again? I wish I could start dreaming of you. The beautiful picture on the wall, framed with the driftwood I picked up from the beach close to your last rented room is so beautiful. But it’s static. It does not have your animated excitement, warmth, snuggled in your favourite blanket, smelling of soap and shampoo, sitting there next to me on the coach, watching the umpteenth re-run of our favourite MASH episodes. We could talk of anything, and we did. But I guess some things you did want to tell me, so we never talked about those. I really wonder, if you had come to me and said “I have a tremendously difficult decision to make, can you help me reach an answer?”, what would I have said? Selfishly told you “no, absolutely not”. Or maybe asked you if you were sure, or if you could wait a while? So that we could first do this, or that, or complete some outstanding item? I do know I treasure all the special moment we had. I just always thought there would be more.

Thank you for all you taught me, for all you gave me, for how you changed me. I know you think your work was done and that you could move on. But I don’t, I am a bit of a mess now unfortunately. So to help me heal I want to ask you one last thing – I want to ask your permission to share a bit of your story, to tell other young adults, other families of you and I. What we were to each other, what you meant to me and continue to do every day.

Before they decide what they want to do with their own very difficult decision.

Since then, now and forever

I miss you,

I love you,

You…

– Forever your loving dad.

If you or someone you know has been having thoughts of suicide, know that you are not alone and there are supports available to help: