In Praise of Mourning.

Writing accumulated over the year that was the first without Dad.

I’m officially in mourning. The Victorians had it right. Change your wardrobe. All black. Curtail your activities and social outings. You didnt get invited to balls and soirees because everybody knew you were in mourning.

For the Jewish faith, there is Shiva. The 30-day mourning period after the burial and including the first seven days of shiva is called Sheloshim. Observed by the immediate family and designed to allow mourners to get over the shock of the death. The family returns to work after the first seven days, but other restrictions remain, such as no attending weddings, dances or parties. Google says that when one is mourning a parent, the observances held in sheloshim are extended for one year from the day of burial.

ONE WHOLE YEAR!? HOW COOL IS THAT!

I’m not Jewish. I’m not from the Victorian era. But still. I like this. I want this. I mean, I dont go to weddings, balls and soirees anyway. But still. It’s the principle of the thing. IF I DID GET INVITED, I wouldn’t have to go. Because I am in mourning.

I need it announced. A stamp that says, “My dad died. Im in mourning.”

I want a sign on my gate. A Tshirt. A hat. Better still, a veil. A decal for my car. The header for my Facebook. An auto reply on my email. The message on my phone for anyone foolish enough to call.

My father is dead. I am in mourning. Put a flashing neon sign on my roof.

Why?

Its freeing.

Mourning means I can be in nothingness.

I want to eat chocolate eclairs and custard puffs from Sweeties? Every day? Why yes of course I can. Order a whole box full and have them delivered to my door. So what if I have high blood pressure and I’m spilling out of my clothes just a little bit. So what?

My dad’s dead. I’m sad.

I want to stay in bed and play Numberzilla on my phone? All day? Only pausing to hug my dog? Go ahead. It’s okay. Just do it.

My dad’s dead. I’m sad.

Sad like fragments of me are coming off in the wash. Like every sunset sees me a bit more washed out and with a little less color than the one before. Sad like every new day is another tiresome reason to keep breathing. Do I have to? When we’re all going to die anyway?

Nearly a year later and it’s not just about missing Dad. No it’s more than that.

A dad dying is unshakeable #rock proof that mortality is a real thing. Yours. Mine. My husband’s. My childrens. My dog (who is basically keeping me alive as my emotional support animal right now.) WE ARE ALL GONNA DIE. So what’s the point of anything?

Ok so maybe I’m dabbling in a bit of existential despair. (My daily dose of anti-depressants is really working hard here.Shout out to drugs that try their best.)

Dessert wont fix it. But I hear Dad asking, after every meal, hopeful “So, is there anything sweet for us to eat? Just a little something sweet?” And, “Dont forget we have to buy ice cream on the way home. Ice cream makes things better.”

Dad lied about ice cream making things better. Because I’m eating heaps of it now and he’s still dead. I still have no dad. And who am I without my dad?

Theres not enough air to breathe for puzzling over so many philosophical questions. Eh.

Back to mourning. And the benefits. Because yes there are some.

Like, I dont care about book deadlines. Or even if I’m ever going to write another book ever again.- That’s okay. Because I’m in mourning. And then the guilt lifts. That heavy rock on my back that reminds me I am a bad writer because I’m not writing 2k words a day. It’s alright. My dad died. I am sad. And its okay not to be a writer.

And it’s okay if I never go back to University or never get a PhD. Because the person who most believed that I could and I should, is dead. So maybe, just maybe, I can be “a success in life” without those papers? Because Dad’s not here to frame them and put them up on his wall? Maybe it’s okay if I never win any more awards? Or get that Nobel Prize for something. Or fix world hunger. End poverty. Save the whales. Stop global warming. Cure cancer. Clean up corruption everywhere. And all the other things my dad thought I could do?

Late at night when the house is asleep and it’s just me and my brain that won’t rest, a quiet question asks itself. ALL THE THINGS I HAVE TO ACHIEVE AND DO IN MY LIFE, ALL THOSE GOALS, HOW MANY OF THEM DO I ACTUALLY WANT TO DO? A whisper, maybe I don’t want to do any of those things.

See, I had a father who truly thought I could do anything and everything. Which, while a wonderful thing, is also a terrible choking pressure. A dark chasm of unfulfilled unattained magnificence that I am forever walking alongside. Because when your dad thinks you can literally do anything, the question then is ever present – UMMM HELLO, WHY HAVENT YOU DONE EVERYTHING YET?!

Stuff you think about when you’re in mourning and you have time to think about it. Because you can ignore all the other stuff you’re supposed to be doing in life.

I go visit him.

It’s not actually him of course. It’s where his body is buried. Slow becoming of earth. Its where, I reckon he’s most likely to check in if he feels like lingering, or sneaking away for a little visit back to earth. If. The garden. At the end of the long driveway where we would walk. I sit under the trees where leaves whisper and birds, so many birds, be talking. Endless chatter. And I tell him things. Just in case he feels like listening.

Things like – hey Dad, I have to tell it to you straight, once and for all okay? I dont want to go back to school. I dont want to get any more degrees. Just the thought of it makes me exhausted. I’m sorry to disappoint you.

Hey Dad, yknow what? I think I’m okay just the way I am. Like I’m cool with not setting any more outrageous goals. I reckon I can be okay, by just being. I dont want to write any more books. Or give any author talks. Or lecture anywhere. I like staying home. It’s nice there. And it’s nice here. Visiting your garden. Sitting under your trees. Listening to the wind whispering secrets and the birds gossiping.

And things like – guess what I did today? Yep. You guessed it. I did it again. I said some stuff and wrote some words and burned some things down, and pointed out some rubbish being done by some people. And some people are mad. Again. Probably using your name in vain as they mutter WHO’S THAT FIAPOTO WOMAN? WHOS HER PARENTS? DIDNT THEY TEACH HER RIGHT? WHOS HER FATHER?

But then let’s be real Dad, if any of them know anything about you, they would then say, TUAOPEPE FILI’S DAUGHTER?! NO WONDER THEN! Because keeping it real Dad, you were known to be a bit of a fiapoto troublemaker shake and stirrer yourself.

Yes, some things about mourning are great. I’m in a meeting. Or at a shop. Listening to somebody drone on. I have my polite face on. My socially engaged face. The one that says, yes I care. Yes I’m fascinated. Yes tell me more. But then I remember. My Dad’s dead. Gone. Forever. In earth terms anyway. Why am I expending energy being personable and affable when I have a dead Dad? Surely I’m allowed to let my real face show. The bitch face that announces, I DONT CARE ABOUT ANY OF YOU. YOU DONT CARE ABOUT ME. NOT REALLY. WE ARENT FRIENDS SO LETS NOT WASTE TIME PRETENDING WE ARE.

I’m enduring a person who should have been blocked on all my real life channels a long time ago. You know those people. The auntie who always exclaims how fat you are. The cousin who wants to borrow money from you yet again. The fake friend who only calls when she wants something and once she gets it she will ignore you. Yes those people. I’m being patient, pleasant and longsuffering. But then it hits me. MY DAD DIED. IM SAD. I DONT HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS. Lifes too short. I need every spare minute I can get, for being sad. Not waste any minutes on your shit. F**K OFF.

See? Mourning is Liberating.

Maybe I’ll stay here indefinitely.