A Door Once Opened

March 21, 2019 Rhiannon Giles

Yesterday was the first day of Spring.

Today is the anniversary of the last time I saw my dad fully alive.

I want to throw open the windows while shuttering them tight. I crave the ease of Spring, but understand that I can’t usher in some feelings and keep others out. I either have to lock myself down tight, or let in the full experience of this complicated life.

The D in DBT stands for “dialectical” — basically, the idea that two or more opposing thoughts or feelings can be true at one time, or a “synthesis or integration of opposites.” So, I understand that there is no reason for guilt in being happy while sad – but it’s so hard to invite sadness in, especially when it was so recently a house guest that overstayed its welcome while trying to tear the house apart.

“A door, once opened, can be stepped through in either direction” – Madame de Pompadour, “Doctor Who: The Girl in the Fireplace”

Whatever door my dad went through – whether the door of ashes to ashes or the door of the heaven in which he had come to believe – it only goes one way. But the door for feelings is open or shut, with no discernment for what is coming through.

A year ago today, my dad came to Durham to go to Lorelei’s grandparent lunch at school. It surprised me when he offered to come up for that — he was not one to leave New Bern if he didn’t have to. I can count on one hand the number of times he ever offered to come to where I live, rather than me going to him. But for whatever reason, whether intuition or coincidence, he decided to eat lunch with his granddaughter.

Afterwards, he picked me up from work and we went out for real lunch — pizza and soda. I have been clinging to the details of that last daddy-daughter date for 365 days. He told me about eating lunch with Lorelei, and how interesting it was to see her with her friends. “But really,” he joked, “it might be easier to dump her lunch straight into the trash at home. She spent too much time talking to her friends to eat it.”

We talked about writing. I hate that he never got to hear about my acceptance from the New York Times.

I’m sure he lectured me about a million things. I have no doubt that he went on long monologues until my eyes glazed over and I wondered if he would ever stop talking. It’s what he did. I miss it.

After lunch he drove me back to work. My dad was pretty reserved with affection, showing it mostly through teasing and sarcasm, but for whatever reason on this day he planted a kiss on my temple. Not an unheard of thing by any means, but something that I noticed.

I think I felt happy. Though it’s difficult to tease out my actual feelings from the backwards compatible feelings filtered through grief.

What’s in a year?

A lot, as it turns out.

The depression train was right on schedule. The concurrent end of my marriage and death of my father meant that this time, I was tied to the tracks.

I’d like to say that I made it through these darkest days with grace and humility. I did not. I made it through kicking and screaming, hell bent on passive self destruction. I was my own unwelcome house guest.

I made it through in spite of myself.

There’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in – Leonard Cohen

On the other side, there is still stress. I’m going to have to move soon, and I have no idea how to afford it. But otherwise? Otherwise things are actually pretty good. A year ago I would have never guessed that this would be the landscape of my life — last year, the painting was smudged and even the happy little trees were sad.

I have learned so much about how to work with my brain, rather than against it. For once I’m not fighting back (much).

I don’t want to close myself off to this brave new world. For the first time in so long, things are mostly looking up, and I don’t want to miss out. I want to feel this spring sun on my face, even if it means tolerating the occasional thunderstorm.

I guess it’s time to open the windows and doors.

open window