I wasn’t sure if I would end up writing personal posts. But I feel like saying something about this topic and it’s coming spontaneously.
Today is the first anniversary of my father’s suicide.
I actually didn’t know him my whole life until I was twenty or so. My parents were a teenage fling, but I was conceived on purpose because you know, in their teenage wisdom, it would be fun to have a baby.
They broke up when I was a toddler and my dad moved to British Colombia due to heartache. My mom got married and I was adopted by a step-father who was a rowdy Irish man with the fighting spirit of an ancient Celt who loved to get into a rumble any time, in front of me and my sisters or not.
My biological father came back to Ontario when I was a very young adult and had been in my life ever since, not always in person but always a phone call or text away. We had not had any contact my entire childhood and teenage years as my stepfather wouldn’t allow it, so he was always this mysterious figure to me, who I didn’t even know was alive or not.
He was strikingly handsome, unusually good-looking. Six foot three, naturally bright blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He kind of looked like a mix of Chris Hemsworth, Robert Redford, Alan Jackson but better looking than those guys. He was covered in tattoos and hung out with bad crowds his whole youth and was in and out of jail. But he had a good heart and was a good person who loved animals.
He never had a steady relationship with another woman and never had any other children. He was very insecure and painfully awkward. He was quick to anger and known for his violent temper.
Social scenarios were painful for him. It was obvious his skin was crawling with all the pretend pleasantries. I always felt so bad for him in those scenarios because I could relate and had the same issues socially. But I was really good at pretending to be naturally good at interacting with others. He wasn’t.
Since we connected, I would come with him to family affairs with my biological family whom I had never known. I think he liked having me there for support. And he said he liked to show me off.
His mother, my grandmother was one of the fakest people I have ever met. It was painful to talk to her, so unnatural. She was a devout Catholic school teacher and I remember as a child overhearing my aunt saying that she didn’t accept me because I was born out of wedlock. It must have been true since my biological grandparents lived near me as a child but never tried to be in my life.
Which is totally fine by me.
My father had borderline personality disorder. I didn’t know that until after his death but I could have figured it out. Upon receiving the news of his suicide, I felt the natural thing, guilt. He indicated in his letter that he was lonely and couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe I should have reached out more, but he was difficult to connect with. While he obviously had a physical aversion to socializing, he also couldn’t ease into an authentic existence. He wasn’t the type of person to have a “spiritual” disposition.
I think what my father represents is what happens in a society that has absolutely no grounding, no connection to each other in a more profound outlook on life. We do not experience life in a meaningful way in our time.
The only options my dad saw was Catholicism/Christianity and entertainment/mass media plus life-sucking careers. He rejected both, pursued probably a more exciting criminal life for a while, then after more than a decade of honest work in the trades got profoundly bored and lonely and felt there was nothing else to do. What breaks my heart is the haunting thought that maybe he thought he wasn’t any value to me.
I understand the intense feeling of dread that comes along with our stale, dumbed-down world. Not only that but our increasingly dangerous world, and the constant threat to our livelihoods.
It is truly a battle in this day and age to orient your mind in a way that helps you thrive, let alone have someone to guide you properly. All we have are our minds, ultimately that is what makes us human. We live in a time where there is a war on our minds, our humanity, and that is seen manifested in the high rates of suicide.
I hope one day in the future, human communities will reconstruct healthy rituals for the reverence of life and recover a sense of beauty and wonder that we can connect in as a way to cope with inevitable existential dread.
It is said that the Mystery traditions were participated in by the whole community as a means to develop a fresh perspective and become renewed. The initiates were said to have underwent a transformation, feeling re-vitalized, re-born and no longer had a fear of death. Most adults in Athens participated in the Eleusinian Mysteries regardless of social status and if I’m not mistaken I believe it might have been a requirement for maturity. (I’ll have to find the source of where I got that idea).
I have heard the argument that humanity has gradually degenerated since the Mysteries died. I think it’s true. We no longer have any rites of passage, no rituals to help us gain insight to become fully life-affirming adults.
The writer and initiate Apuleius wrote of his experience in the Mystery cult of Isis – “there came from Isis a light ..”
Maybe the practices were a way of meeting the maker, so to speak, before one fully dies and thereby being able to cope with being alive in a productive and thriving way.
This is what we are sorely lacking today.
May we recover proper visions for humanity, on a sovereign level and restore mental fortitude and clarity and grounding in the thrill and wonder of this existence.