First, hi, thank you for being here.

I’ll keep the preface short. If you’re reading this, you probably know me and my story. Or, perhaps, you know a version of me through instagram where I shared this.

For those who don’t, all you need to know to understand this post is,

I’m one of the very many survivors of suicide loss. It was my dad, back in 2006 at age 51. I was 10 years old. I came across an article talking about how helpful it can be, for a person who’s grieving, to write a letter to a loved one who has passed away. I loved that idea. Journaling has become a somewhat obsessive habit of mine.

Now, this isn’t my first “letter to my dad”, but it’s the one that I feel is worth sharing. My hope is that this will at least show somebody out there that they aren’t alone. For me, that was one of the most difficult parts about this experience. Over these past 14 years, I’ve realized how beneficial it would have been to hear others’ stories. It’s also a big sort of cathartic release to put it out into the world… and, honestly, I didn’t quite know how to share it with everyone on an individual level.

Also, I suppose it is worth noting for those who know me personally: I’m in a good place. No need to worry about me. The past struggles I mention are in the past.

My phone and email are open for deeper and extended conversations on this topic. I’d love to hear from you.

(510) 331 - 0284 | s@skylerstanley.com

Email is better for me. I will try my best to reply promptly. Apologies in advance if it takes me a minute.

Last point, this piece may be a trauma trigger for some. So let this be a warning.

A Letter To My Dad,

It’s been 14 years now. Time really flies.

I wrote you this letter and I don’t really know why. I suppose I’m in need of some form of catharsis. From the audio tapes I’ve listened to, a younger Marty sounds a lot like me. Based on what I know of you, I’m sure you would like to get deep on life and discuss difficult subjects.

So here we go,

…After you died, I hoped that the pain would disappear and things would get easier. Well, that’s not really the case. Instead life got increasingly more complicated and confusing. The pain we experienced on day one just manifested itself in deeper and more intertwined ways. It’s rare day when the thought of death doesn’t enter my mind.

Family became fragmented and distant. It grew harder and harder to talk about important things, or get emotional with one another. Close friends became reminders of you, and the hurt inside, so I began distancing myself. The holidays stopped being warm and happy. Where most others became excited and joyful for Christmas, for me it was just another reminder that our family wasn’t whole anymore. I wasn’t the grinch by any means, but I didn’t care about it.

The meaning of home—whatever that word was supposed to mean—became blurred. The old farmhouse you bought and planned on restoring became this growing financial burden for Mom, and an environment of overwhelming stress, anger, haunting pain, and guilt. The property became a junkyard for other people’s things over the years. I hated it. I was embarrassed that this is what home was. I carried a lot of shame for what it had become.

For years I was left with a sense of hopelessness and plagued with frequent episodes of deep depression. My reality was broken and distorted. Nothing really mattered in my mind; nothing felt real. I barely passed high school… not because I was stupid, but because I just didn’t care. What was the point if you could just die, out of nowhere, tomorrow?

I got really, really good at distracting myself, disassociating, and running away from the pain and problems at home. Luckily my biggest escape, as a kid, was in video games. We lived too far away from anything for me to get into real trouble. Photography was a savior for me. It helped get me out of my shell a bit and out of our small town. Home pulled me back a few times.

Then I ran away to LA. There came a point where I hoped I would never have to return; that the problems at home would just solve themselves, or I’d find a golden ticket that would allow me to magically fix everything. That wasn’t the case. All of my demons began to catch up. The guilt and shame for what I had left behind hooked into me like a snare. Alcohol became a way of coping with old wounds, freshly opened, and new inner turmoil and shame that arose during my time in this new city.

Drinking became a dependency, for two years straight. There were countless times I found myself in a newer, darker, depressed place. Most of the time for no apparent reason. Many times where I lost myself; where I almost lost full control. Sometimes it was drinking til I blacked out. Sometimes hurting myself. Other times I was racing at high speeds on the freeway. It hurts to say this, but there were moments when suicidal ideation was a regular occurrence for me.

In those moments, a particular question began to arise more frequently, one that weighed heavily on me this September.

What if you never pulled the trigger?

In my imagination, it’s a much better life. One with far less pain and confusion. One where a little boy and girl had their father. In this life I probably would have done better in school, stayed on the basketball team, gone to a good college, got my education, and been well on my way in my career. We would have built a car together. Callista would still be painting in the studio with you for hours on end. She would have helped you paint your next mural. We both would have worked in your gallery with you. Mom would have her soulmate to take a much needed vacation with, a gardening partner, someone to sip wine with and watch the sunset…and ultimately live out a long happy life.

I’m also just so curious how your career would have evolved. Would it continue to grow? Would it plateau? Would you have leveraged your success, business acumen, and many other talents, to start another venture? Given your mastery in the kitchen perhaps it’d be a restaurant. Maybe that turned into two. A family empire. A nest egg for future generations. Maybe an upholstery shop. Maybe you partnered with a client to start something new and exciting… Maybe you would have finished your Soapbox film and off your career went into that industry, and—

Well, that’s just my imagination.

In reality, you did pull the trigger. A split second decision that changed our lives forever. September 28th, 2006 was like the epicenter of a massive earthquake with aftershocks that just keep hitting. It defined the next 14 years.

I have 14 years worth of questions I’d like to ask you, topics I’d want to pick your brain on. It could probably fill a book.

What was your favorite song? Your favorite movie? What were some bigger visions you had for your home, and art? What was your first heartbreak like? How did you know Mom was the one? What did painting feel like for you? What was your first thought when Callista was born?

But I can’t ask you these questions.

I wish we could play basketball together again.

But we can’t.

You should have been there when Callista graduated from high school.

But you weren’t.

That last one makes so fucking angry. I’m angry at the situation. I’m angry at depression. I’m angry at the doctors that fed you the medication cocktail and the horribly wrong things they said to you. I’m angry that people didn’t have the understanding and awareness of mental health issues then like we do today.

I’m not angry at you anymore because I understand the pain you were in.

As I was looking through old photos from 2004 to 2006 I could see the difference in your eyes. Depression was physically taking effect. Your suicide notes gave me insight into your mental torment, the control depression had and just how relentless it was. I only have my personal experiences to compare that day to and as bad as it got for me, it was never enough to push me over the edge. That could be in part due to the fact that I know the after effects of a decision like that. But, yours was severe enough to do so. I’m sorry.

A few years back mom described the 28th from her perspective. How she went to run errands, tried calling you, and you didn’t pick up. How she came home, fearing something was wrong, calling out your name, with no answer. How she then found your body on the floor of your studio and had to be the one to call 911. The note you left in the door didn’t work, it didn’t stop her from seeing your body. I can’t even begin to imagine how gut-wrenching, traumatizing, and just plain horrible that was. She didn’t fucking deserve that.

I see those images in my head a lot.

Here I am 14 years later, cleaning out, repainting and fixing up your studio. Today, I painted over the spot in the wall that the bullet hit. The other day, I came across an old speaker in the rafters with your blood on it…Or is it paint? I’ve asked myself that a few times in this past week. And honestly I don’t really know if I feel anything about it.

For years, I wished we would’ve moved away from this house. We should have. But shoulda coulda woulda’s don’t doing anything for us at this point. The worst of the pain has passed and we have to do the best with what we’ve got. I now realize that what we’ve got is a big piece of your legacy. Your first and final house. I’m thankful Mom worked so hard to never lose it, and I hope it doesn’t get to that point. Someday I’ll have the money to make it a living monument of your legacy and art for our family.

What’s crazy is it took a worldwide pandemic to slow down ALL of the distractions keeping me away from home. Covid19 forced me to face a lot of what I had been pushing away…. as I’m sure it’s done for a lot of people. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for those struggling with depression.

It isn’t to say life has been all bad since you’ve died—that’s not the case at all. Most of what I laid out might seem grim, and it is, but more than anything it’s the truth. And I personally feel it’s better to say the bad news first. Maybe someday I’ll write you a letter of all the good things that have happened in life. Not yet, there’s still a lot of time for that.

I’ll end this on some positive notes…

On this September 28th, I set some new precedents… To stop running and face my demons head on. It’s time to finally set my ego aside, man up, put the work in and lay a new foundation for our future. I had my last drink on the 27th and, as of writing this, it’s the longest I’ve been without it in a long time.

I have grand visions for the three of us. I know we’re capable of greater achievements. It’s time for a real change and hopefully I can be a good leader.

By the way,

You’d be really proud of Callista. She’s wise beyond her years, super caring, smart, and insanely talented. She’s got your gift with a paintbrush. Her taste in music is amazing. Oh and uh, she’s going to school in New York. She’s just really fucking cool. I wish you were here to get to know her. You’re really missing out man.

Mom is insanely strong—the most resilient person I know. Life has been tough on her and I really don’t know how she managed to get through. She, too, is incredibly loving and caring and I’m so grateful for her and everything she’s done for Callista and I. Not to mention, how lucky we are that she was such a talented and avid documentarian. Without her vast library of amazing photos and videos, I wouldn’t know what you were like; I wouldn’t remember my childhood. She was also there for your mother til the end. The three of us were there for Nana’s last breath.

My promise and mission in life is to be there for the two of them. To take care of them. To sacrifice anything I have to and do whatever it takes, so they can have the happiest and easiest version of life possible. That’s my duty as a son and brother.

There’s a longer version of this scattered in my notes, but uh, I think you get the point.

Obviously, this will never reach you. But whatever… Hope you see it.

Sincerely,

Skyler