13 Regrets

Was I A Reason?

      I don't think I could ever scream again like I did on the day my dad died.

     My feet thundered up the stone sidewalk on that dark November day, going faster and farther with each step as I bounded up to the front door of my house, an uneasy lump growing in my throat.

     Why are there so many cars in the driveway? My blood roared in my ears.

     My aunt answered the door.

     With wide eyes, I stepped inside, peering into the doorway to the kitchen only to catch sight of people I had only seen once before.

     I've never felt any dread like the kind I felt in that moment.

     If there was any moment I needed God to listen to me the most, it would've been right in that moment. The moment of the most desperate, pleading prayer I've ever prayed, and the moment where I knew it would take a handful of words for my worst fear to come alive.

     Please let him just be hurt, let him be in the hospital and safe and even if he's not okay God just please, please let him be alive.

     Please, God, give me one more chance to help him.

     Please, save him.

     Take me instead.

     Mom grasped my arm too tightly and pulled me along behind her, leaving me to look helplessly at the people sitting around the kitchen table as she dragged me past them and into the living room.

     "Dad passed away today... He took his life."

     My world shattered into pieces.

     The next thing I knew, Mom was gripping my arms again, lowering my limp body down on the carpet and telling me to wake up.

     No.

     My face crumpled up and tears blurred my eyes. My sobs turned into yells, and before I knew it I was screaming in denial as loud as I could, saying one word over and over and over.

     No.

     There was so much I had never said to him.

     No.

     There was so much I had never done for him.

     No.

     I should've hit him and screamed until he listened to me.

     No.

     Why didn't I visit him in the hospital?

     No.

     Why didn't I call him more when he was trapped there?

     NO.

     Why had I been so afraid to talk to him?

     NO.

     Why was I so scared?

     NO.

     Why didn't I tell him I loved him more?

     NO.

     Why didn't I hug him more?

     NO.

     Why didn't I convince him that I needed him around?

     NO.

     Why couldn't I have been a better daughter?

     NO.

     Why couldn't I save him?

     NO, NO, NO!

     What could I have done to save him?

     I was his fourteen year old daughter. His little squirt. His sidekick.

     Over two years, two hospitalizations and an anti-depressant medication later, I still ask myself those very same questions, with only one new one emerging.

     What can I do to save myself from going down that very same road?