I am not a whisky person. It’s a bit much. It burns, it’s strong, it’s just a bit much. But it will always make me think of my Dad.
Just typing out the word, whisky, I can smell it, I can hear the ice, I can see that amber color in one of his many whisky glasses.
I can smell it mixed in with his aftershave and cologne.
His favorite was Makers Mark. What is bourbon? Or whisky? Are they the same? I have no idea.
As a kid, I loved this bottle. It looked like a candle melted over it and there was the comfort of associating it with my Dad.
As an adult, I still find a comfort in just seeing the bottle.
When I was in Kentucky in November, I went and looked in his liquor cabinet for the bottle. I could have sworn I saw it there on my initial search 2 years ago, but I guess I didn’t. It wasn’t there.
I had a moment while I was there. It was around 4am, I couldn’t sleep, so I found myself curled up in the corner of the couch in the living room with a cup of coffee and just sitting there. No phone in my face, just sitting there.
I was sitting maybe 3 feet from where he took his life. I was uncomfortable and really in my head.
The day before I had ripped up every inch of carpet and vinyl flooring and got to see the hardwood floors for the first time in my life.
I had heard of those floors. My whole life my grandmother often spoke of them, the upkeep and what it took to keep them waxed and cleaned. There was no poly then. The upkeep of them resulted in her choosing to carpet over them sometime in the 60’s.
I had never seen them.
But now here they were. They are gorgeous. With every inch of carpet I ripped up, every nail and staple I pulled out, with every plank of vinyl I pulled off, I just fell more in love with the look.
I love hardwood floors and these are 1920’s old floors that are just insanely beautiful.
To me at least.
It was quiet that morning, as I sat in that house that I had called home my whole life. I could see a path worn into the floors. Coming from the kitchen, through the dining room, through the living room and into the hallway to the bedrooms and bathroom.
I know my Dad took his first steps on those floors. I could see my grandmother and my grandfather walking the path. I can hear them talking, laughing. I can feel what the house used to be.
Home.
I realized that morning I had not grieved my Dad. At all.
I know grief isn’t linear, I know there’s a roller coaster ride and it’s not something that you really have to ride from A to Z. It’s not something you ‘get over’. It’s just something you learn to live with.
I haven’t accepted the loss of him yet. I haven’t accepted how he chose to leave this life.
I’m still so angry with the how I lost him.
In the months after his death, I numbed it with Prozac. Doc started me on a higher dose right off the bat and maybe that was not a good thing, but looking back now I’m happy those months I was on it was mind numbing.
I felt nothing and that was needed, I think.
I did take myself off around 6 months and that was also needed.
The flood of emotions came along with detoxing off and most of those emotions were anger.
So much anger. I’m still mad. It’s easier to be mad I think.
So that brings me back to his favorite brand of whisky.
My new brother sent me a box of gifts for Christmas. One of the gifts was Makers Mark and two whisky glasses.
I was stunned. I don’t drink it, never spoke to him about it, we don’t even talk about our parents.
He knows I lost my dad and how, but that’s it. I find he and I only talk about ourselves. I’m interested in his life, growing up and to the present and same seems to go for him. We both seem to be mad at our mothers a little, somewhat interested in our bio dad, but more interested in who we are.
So that being said, unwrapping the whisky was a shock.
I immediately knew I would be taking it back to Kentucky when I go.
Maybe it’s time I let go of some of the anger and remember my Dad. Maybe honor him and his memory.
Maybe.
Maybe I pour a drink and give a little toast to him.
Im not fully there yet, but I’m also feeling like I’m not as angry as I was.
With the acknowledgment of fading anger, I am also sensing the fear of the house is also fading.
So let’s see where this goes. I think another trip to KY is close.
So me, the dog, my bird and a bottle of Makers Mark are heading home. Soon.
Maybe I just tuck this bottle into his liquor cabinet and find a comfort in that alone.
It’s been 2 years since he took his life. A year and half or so of pure anger at him.
I’m exhausted.
Those gorgeous floors though. 🥰
You can see the worn path going in front of the coffee table, through my dog, making a left into the hallway.
I have no idea why seeing that brings the comfort that it does, but it does. It reminds me that this is my house, my home, my history. Maybe I can begin to see that what he did in this house just becomes part of its history and I should not fear that.
Walking the Journey 