New Return Policy

My father's suicide was the end of one part of a journey and the beginning of another. It was the end of a kind of chaotic craziness that snaked its way into the very heart of me and occupied far too much space for far too long, suffocating every loving need, desire and impulse.

And so his absence - at least the practical, physical absence of him in my life - was a relief. But the residue left behind was thick and tarry and sticky in a way that almost nothing could dissolve. And the light trying to shine through was met with this darkness again and again. And it wasn't mine, but it made a home inside me, and I gave it life and protection long after its owner could claim rights to it. It bent and maybe even broke some places inside of me, but not beyond repair.

The solvent to dissolve this darkness in my life, in me, has recently appeared. And I feel like I'm gulping it down, spilling it all over myself, practically bathing in it, willing the light to shine wherever it possibly can, however it possibly can. I can't begin to identify the components of this darkness - to define or name what's there, and I won't waste time trying.

But I can see the huge distraction that it's been. The way it's defined me and shadowed me, the sorrow that haunted me, the protection I needed and the help I wanted to provide but couldn't offer. But it's not my story anymore. It doesn't belong to me. I'm giving it back. With love and good wishes for healing and light. But it doesn't live here anymore. 17 years later, I'm giving it back. And I'm making room for something new.