TW: self harm, family, death
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What does it mean for someone to have feet made of clay? It comes from a bible story actually, not that I am religious at all, but I find the imagery to be powerful. A great statue, something radiating strength, has this foundation of vulnerability.
It isn’t perfect.
What do we do when people we look up to and rely on suddenly force us to come to terms with their humanity, their imperfection? I was confronted with this question recently.
My father had a nervous breakdown. He was suicidal.
It’s hard to write those words, to remember the terror I felt when I first found out. Across the country with no way to help in the middle of a pandemic, I could only wait with dread for the next update. I cried. I had nightmares.
This person who had been the foundation for many of us in the family, the bedrock of quiet strength, was frail. There was a limit to what he could bear, and it seems unworthy of us who love him to have taken him for granted for so long.
I have anxiety and depression.
I understand where he is now. Others in my family do not. We are all coping in our own ways. Some by avoiding, some by giving all that we can, and some by just trying to get by without too many expectations.
We are all trying to adapt to a world where we can’t rely on the anchor we had before, but is that such a bad thing? People are not perfect. And placing so much stock into one person is an unfair burden.
I still have an occasional nightmare. I get anxious when I haven’t talked to him in too long or gotten some kind of update. I cry unexpectedly and for seemingly no reason.
He is working hard to find balance, to find some peace. He is finding his own way in a world where he doesn’t recognize himself either.
My father’s feet are made of clay. Shattered, but in the process of being remade.
Why did we think they were anything else?
