Grief Doesn’t Rewrite the Story

 

I picked up this book one day called I’m Glad My Mom Died, and I didn’t know that I would one day come back to that book to help find some comfort or clarity.

There is something about having someone put words to something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Love, grief, anger, resentment, disappointment, and then even maybe a sense of relief.

What happens when someone dies and grief doesn’t magically rewrite the relationship you actually had with them?

There’s this expectation that grief will come and suddenly you will see the relationship and the person in a much brighter light. But what if that doesn’t happen?

What if you can recognize that grief does not erase hurt? That grief does not take the place of your boundaries or your respect for yourself and others. It does not repair the relationship, and it does not make the relationship nice and polished.

Grief does not have to push someone toward only talking about the good and not the bad. Death doesn’t automatically make someone good, but grief has a way of making us romanticize the people we are grieving.

So I’ve tried to think about what parts of him I am tempted to rewrite now that he is gone. And honestly, I struggle to find some with solid ground. Was he helpful, loyal, fun, hardworking, protective, reliable, and a good man? Sure, to some. But he was not those things to the people who should have mattered. He was not those things when he was abusive, drunk, or high. He was not those things with his daughter, his parents, or many women. He was not those things outside of the relationships that served him more.

And because I am unwilling to romanticize him now that death has come, the villain I will always be. The villain to him, his friends, and the people who only knew the side of him that showed up. But at this juncture, it costs me nothing to allow those people to hold onto that narrative. It only frees up more space for me to put my energy elsewhere. I am not new to being the villain in his story. Maybe part of this boundary now is finding peace with the fact that he took that version of me to his grave. Because part of the boundary is also accepting that I will never get to correct the narrative.

But refusing to rewrite him does not mean refusing to remember him. I can honor his death without dishonoring my own experience. I am unwilling to put him on a pedestal and pretend he did no wrong, but I can still look back on memories that show there was goodness in him. The laughing. The joking. The playing around. The random experiences and lessons I gained just because of the lifestyle he chose. Him pushing me, either purposefully or not, to know that I can take care of things on my own if needed.

He could be kind. He could show up for someone at any moment. He could somehow make things happen because “he knew someone.”

Both things can be true. And maybe that is actually part of what hurt so much.

He could show up.

I knew he could because I watched him do it for other “kids.” It’s a heartbreaking thing for a child to sit back and watch their parent give other people the version of themselves they keep reaching out for.

I wasn’t asking him to be the perfect Dad. Never.

I was asking for basic love, respect, and accountability. I was asking him to show up in a way I knew he had in him and to stop making the choice that I wasn’t worthy of that side of him. I didn’t set my boundary because I didn’t want a relationship with him. I set the boundary because I wanted him to actually be a Dad.

The line in the sand came when I finally recognized that he viewed everyone as his little puppets and himself as the puppet master. If the puppets did not comply with what he wanted, or the situation did not follow his manipulation plan, he was going to make sure everyone knew he had been betrayed. He would make sure the puppets felt the repercussions of finding and believing in their own footing.

The boundary I set was based on respect, loyalty, and self-preservation. Respect for myself and the people he wasn't respecting. Loyalty to the people I loved and their best interests. And self-preservation from continuing to open myself up to guilt trips, role reversal, and violence.

Even more importantly, it was about keeping my children out of the way of that same heartbreak. Keeping them from wondering why Grandpa didn’t show and ever questioning their worthiness because of it, like I have.

After another tantrum and another time of making himself the victim because I stepped up to the plate and took care of what should have been his responsibilities, I had enough. I was not going to be the bigger person anymore. I was not going to keep putting out olive branches in hopes that maybe this time he would grab on. I no longer had the energy to keep wondering if now would be the time I was finally enough for him to show up, or if this would be the time I could trust him to follow through.

So I set the boundary.

And now I am learning what happens to a boundary when the person it protected you from dies. It doesn’t disappear.

I spent my day figuring out how I could be secretly allowed into his showing, how I could keep myself and others safe in that moment, and how I could avoid contact with his people.

Just because he is gone does not mean my boundary fades.

Right now, it means it stays just as strong. It means I continue to honor it by not going back into the sea of people who dishonored that boundary or threatened any part of my safety.

But maybe the boundary shifts.Maybe now the boundary is refusing to let guilt rewrite why I made the decisions I did. Maybe it’s allowing myself to remember good things without deciding that the bad things weren’t there. Maybe it’s allowing other people to tell their version of the story without feeling like I have to prove mine.

His death was unexpected and taken into the hands of some awful humans. He may have hurt me deeply, and I can still have empathy and believe he didn’t deserve what happened to him.

Both things can be true.

And I don’t think things would be changing for me if his death had been different.

We are taught that when someone dies, they deserve to be placed on a pedestal. That animosity should be sifted through before it’s too late because someday you won’t be able to go back.

That someday came.

And if I could go back to the day I set that boundary, knowing everything I know now, I still wouldn’t tell myself to waver.

I’m not glad he’s dead.

I’m not glad our relationship ended the way it did.

I’m not glad that there will never be another chance.

But I’m also not willing to turn his death into evidence that I was wrong to protect myself while he was alive.