Daddy's little girl

CW: Depression, suicide, child loss

It’s a long way down from the edge of the bridge.

As my legs dangle freely 70 feet above certain death, I can’t help but be mesmerized by the glimmering sheen of the gentle creek below as its currents glisten under the light of the full moon.

Why is it that the river never stops moving?

What keeps the Moon riding around the Earth, forever just an arm’s distance away?

The world is complicated, and everything has its struggles. Now and again, a boulder will tread down the soft hills to disrupt the river’s flow. Even the Moon disappears for one night a month. But no matter what, order will inevitably return and the world will move on.

So what am I doing here?

The river doesn’t complain when it’s blocked for a year or more. I’ve never seen the new moon scowl. And yet sitting here on the shoulders of a concrete behemoth, I see no way forward. A weight stronger than any other pulls my stomach toward the Earth as if trying to suck me in from whence I came. My head feels lighter than a balloon, guiding me upwards toward the shimmering stars. In the middle, my heart is torn apart in the ultimate tug of war, threatening to burst through my suit and tie. All of my senses scream at my brain to get away from the danger, to go back home. But I can’t move a muscle.

I finally gather the strength to raise my arm and peek at my watch.

11:35.

25 minutes left.

It’s been almost an hour since I took my seat here on the ledge. Not a soul has driven by; not a sound has broken the perfect serenity of my rest. The only visible speck of light is the one flickering inside my own heart. The last spark of life I have left sputters and trembles deep inside my chest, struggling to illuminate the pitch-black depths of my mind.

A similar kind of light floats around just behind me. I can’t see it, but I’m sure she’s there. After all, I can’t seem to remember a time she wasn’t. Her light shines brightly as she dances innocently through the air, entertaining herself amongst the giant steel pillars of the bridge. I would wonder what kind of force maintains such a brilliant light, so beautiful and pure, but I don’t care at all. Because I know it’s not real.

One more peek at the watch.

15 minutes left.

I let out a heavy sigh as I start to consider just how close I am to the end. Once the clock strikes midnight, all I have to do is tip forward and my job will be done. No more worrying. No more regrets.

As the seconds tick closer and closer, the creek begins to call for me. Everything gets more intense, as the beating of my heart overpowers my thoughts and leaves me deaf. Both the emptiness of my head and the heaviness of my stomach multiply by the minute, tearing me apart from the inside until all my senses seem to fade.

Then, a quiet voice rings clearly in my ears. It’s soft and gentle and bears the tone of a little girl. Yet, it grates my ears. After all, it’s the voice that won’t leave me alone.

“Daddy, do you hate me?”

***

The first time she appeared to me was a few months ago.

I woke up that day just like any other. I got out of my tiny bed, got dressed, and traversed into my tiny kitchen to make breakfast. After making a quick plate of eggs, I lazily wandered into my living room to eat before heading to work. That’s when I saw her, sitting on the couch watching TV. I dropped my breakfast, making a massive mess, and ran over to grab her in my arms. I reached out and felt nothing. After all, you can’t grab something that isn’t there.

“Good morning, Daddy,” she said casually.

I don’t know why I was disappointed. My daughter died 3 years ago. Logically, there’s no way she could’ve been sitting on my couch.

After cleaning up the mess I had made, I left for work and tried to ignore her as much as possible. I walked to the building of the newspaper I wrote for and sat at my desk, blocking out everything around me. I took a few deep breaths, put my head down, and tried in vain to do some writing. She bombarded me with questions, but I ignored her and told myself she’d go away.

“Hey John, I’m talking to you here.” The editor’s voice snapped me out of my focus. “Jesus, did you not hear a word I said? I was just coming around to tell you you did great on that last article, but it seems you’re working hard on the next one already. Keep up the good work.” I awkwardly nodded and returned to my writing.

“She’ll be gone soon. She’ll be gone soon. She’ll be gone soon.” Repeating this seemed like the only way to keep myself sane.

After a painful day of getting very little done, I silently rushed out of the newsroom and back to my apartment. All the while, she would follow me and entertain herself by playing hopscotch in the street. I hurried into my apartment, got undressed, and went right to sleep. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t eaten a bite that day. I needed her to leave.

“Oh, bedtime already? Goodnight, Daddy.”

Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. Please.

I had the same nightmares as usual. Doctors empathetically trying to explain something I didn’t want to understand. A funeral I never wanted to attend. A woman I used to know walking out the door, telling me I reminded her too much of our daughter.

The next morning, I got up, got dressed, and walked slowly into my living room. “She’s gone now, right?” I thought hopefully.

She wasn’t. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” She looked at me from the couch. I couldn’t bear to look back. At that moment, I felt a sense of helplessness consume me from inside. I couldn’t just get rid of her, she wasn’t real. I couldn’t see a doctor, they might have said something was wrong with me.

Something couldn’t have been wrong with me, right? After all, I was praised by everyone around me for “keeping it together” after her death. People with something wrong don’t write award-winning articles days after the death of their 8-year-old daughter, right? “No, this has got to be normal,” I thought. I couldn’t let some little quirk of a trauma I had already gotten over affect me. I was stronger than that.

After running to the bathroom and throwing up violently in the toilet, I looked at myself in the mirror and resolved to toughen up. I would be strong. I would go to work, finish my story, and move on with my life. I walked proudly out of the bathroom and looked her in the eyes as if I didn’t know who she was. “If you want to stick around so badly, you can. But I’ve gotta do my job, so please stay quiet.”

She looked heartbroken. “Oh. Okay. I thought you might want to see me.”

“Please stop.” I didn’t even glance behind me as I grabbed my things and left for work. She followed close behind.

Work was hectic, as per usual toward the end of the writing cycle. With my renewed sense of dedication, I pushed through the day while she tried her best to follow my harsh instruction. I got my article in on time, and the editor said the same things as usual. “You got this done already? You really are a machine, huh?” I gave a forced chuckle as I packed my things and headed back home.

As I lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling, I felt entirely hopeless. The ceiling stared back blankly, not offering any advice. I wasn’t a machine. I was barely a functional human. But I would never accept that. I would stay strong and prove myself to everyone who depended on me. Besides, it would get easier tomorrow, right?

That thought passed through my head every night for two months before I even started to question it. She did her best to be quiet all that time, and I ignored her no matter what. However, every time I reassured myself, I became a little less confident. I started to feel like there was no escape, that I would have to deal with this forever. I zoned out more and more at work, spending more and more late nights writing just to meet deadlines with mediocre pieces. Everyone around me started to look at me with concern and pity, rather than envy and respect. I couldn’t take it anymore.

As the days passed by, a plan started to formulate in my mind. If I couldn’t get her to leave, maybe I would just have to escape. She had passed 4 years ago that Thursday. On that day, I would kill myself.

The days passed by, slower and slower until Wednesday arrived. I got home from work that day, having done nothing, and sat down on my bed one last time. I remain there, contemplating nothing, until 10:00 rolled around.

I walked downstairs slowly, stumbled outside under the full moon, got in the car I barely ever used, and started to drive.

I knew exactly where I was going. A tall bridge over a small creek, just 30 minutes away from where I lived. Hardly anyone ever went there, and I figured the fall would be long enough.

So I drove, mind completely empty, and parked just off the bridge. I walked halfway across the concrete structure, looked at my watch, and took a seat on the edge.

***

“Daddy, do you hate me?”

Since she showed up three months ago, I haven’t said a word to her - other than to tell her to stay quiet. The sound of her voice always makes my stomach twist and turn. I have nothing but fond memories of her, so why can’t bear to even look at her? I’ll be dead in 10 minutes anyway. I guess she deserves an explanation. “No, I don’t hate you.”

“Then why do you never talk to me?”

I regret saying anything.

“You used to smile all the time when we would play. You were so nice to me. But now you don’t smile at all. And you don’t even talk to me.” She sits next to me with a sad look.

“Things have changed. You were all I had to smile about.”

“Then why didn’t you smile when I came back?”

“Because I…” My voice falters. I hadn’t even thought about it. “I don’t know. I wish I could’ve.”

She doesn’t look satisfied. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? I came back because you looked like you needed a friend. But I made things worse, right?”

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart. Daddy’s just… busy.”

“All the people at work are so nice to you too. They always tell you how good you are, but you still never smile. And then you come home and do nothing but write and look sad.”

“You know adults have work that needs to get done.”

“Yeah, but you never have any fun. And no matter what, you never cry. You always told me you have to embrace the sad days to enjoy the happy ones. You never do either, you always just work.”

“It’s different when you’re an adult. The world doesn’t care what you’re feeling, and there’s no time to cry.”

“But mom cried all the time. She would cry all day in the hospital and you would hug her and tell her it was OK. And I know I can’t give you a hug, but I just want to tell you it’s OK. That’s all I want.”

“I…” I try to give her a response, but something holds the words from my mouth. My throat starts to swell, blocking my breath. It spreads throughout my body, causing my chest to stutter and my nose to get stuffy. I fall to the ground on my back in a panic, wondering what could be doing this. Then, my vision starts to get blurry. And all of a sudden, as if bursting out of years of containment, tears start rolling down my cheeks. A single sob escapes my lungs, and after a moment, I lose all control.

She was right. It’s been years since I cried. At first, my uncontrollable outburst scared me, but I slowly gave up resisting. As the memories and emotions I tried so hard to forget roll through my brain like a slideshow, I lie on the ground, sobbing louder and louder. For my family, for my daughter, but also for myself.

I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I got here. If I spent an hour on the ledge, I must’ve spent five rolling on the ground in despair. By the time I’m able to calm down and open my eyes, I’m blinded by a light up above me. I feel a quick twinge of grief. Maybe she’s still there. There’s so much I want to say to her.

As I wipe the tears from my eyes and let them adjust to the light, I see its source. But it’s not her. Instead, it’s the morning sun, come to tell me I wasted the night away enveloped in sadness. And yet, it has another message. A message I couldn’t have imagined the night before. It tells me I’ve survived.

And the tears and dirt that cover my suit tell me that maybe, I just might be alive.