My father’s suicide was an action that took several years to fulfill but was complete within seconds.

The 3^rd Anniversary of his death was on December 10, 2016; I got a tattoo.

Never, in a million years, did I think I would get my skin etched with something that would last a lifetime, and not one of my family members expected it either:  I am the ‘good-girl’, ‘girl next door’ ‘former Stepford wife’ type.  Yet, I did.

The tattoo is four lines from the end of a poem that I wrote about my father’s suicide and it describes the moment of his passing.

It came about after reading the coroner’s report which stated that “…death took place within seconds of the bullets impact.”

Seconds.

This realization … this idea … that he had ‘seconds’ struck a chord with me.  Think about that … he had ‘seconds’ of some strange consciousness; an understanding? Did he have a thought … a feeling in that time?  A regret, worry, or relief? Maybe he felt pain … or saw an image?  Seconds … he had a seconds worth of something.  We tend to underestimate a second’s value because we fail to grasp its wealth.  That is to say that we neglect it until someone dies, then suddenly a second is truly a lifetime; a moment missed or gained – not just for the deceased but for the living.

And, I have read his report frequently; it has become as much a part of me as breathing.  It is so colorful and visual that there are instances where I can feel as if I am sitting outside with my dad as he draws the gun.

I think about his last second of life.

Trying to find closure in a suicide is seemingly impossible because of the greater impact.  The chaos it brings with it is a monster that cannot be contained.  And, very few can understand the toll it takes on the surviving loved ones.  There is an unrealistic expectation that it will all turn around, or that we should just put it from our minds – as if we have control over this ‘thing’ we truly have no control over.

I have discussed his death with anyone who would listen and I’ve written about it privately and publicly in various forms, but there is only a brief space of relief before it returns to haunt; my thoughts always return to him.

So, the idea of getting a tattoo seemed a last attempt to purge that monster, and my father, from my thoughts while still honoring this event.

I wasn’t afraid – just anxious.  There was very little pain … and even then only in a passing way although there was, for me, quite a bit of blood.  The seconds before the ink was injected there was a pleasure in the anticipation; as there was in the vibration from the machine connected to the needle and the pressure on my arm as the artist tried to maneuver the words on my taut skin.

And, when for the briefest time I felt a semblance of stinging … I craved it.  There was a certain satisfaction … the realness of the moment shining through the varied and fluctuating emotions.  In some way I feel closer to my father now: This stupid tattoo … all four lines.  I love it as a part of who I am, who I have always been but have been too timid to show. The significance, the professional and personal risk of getting such a thing is deeply effective.  As a woman, to place on my body something I wanted, will be judged by, and something that will be with me until my own death … is powerful.  My father gave this to me.

It is real.  I can touch it; feel the angry, bruised, and raised lettering.  The long, black, Type Font standing out on my pale skin like neon lights — and I am overcome with emotion; the thoughts and meaning break my heart.  It is as if by committing this scarification to my body my father is woven into my being, even more than our shared DNA.  And he will forever be with me, not in the cliché heart, but physically with me.

Each time my children run their tiny fingers over the engraving on my arm they burn my skin; flashes of private separate-and-shared memories with my siblings and our father; and the remembrances we will never have again, nor be able to create.  The pain and pleasure intermingling:  the sadness, pride, and loss knotted together in ways I cannot truly explain.

The mourning of a suicide is difficult to relay to someone who hasn’t shared the experience.  Every day one grapples to move forward and to live a life he chose not to.  Every day we question.  Every day our respite of happiness is strung with bits of sorrow.  Every day we try to connect with our disconnect: every day … every action, every feeling is filled with contradiction.  There is a never ending search party in our being that is fighting through the dark to find the light, and … to hold on.  This desperate search takes a toll in multiple, almost violent ways.

So much happens in a second and yet we are wholly unaware:  Our lives revolve around the seconds not the minutes, or the hours, days, or years.  Emotions are measured in the seconds we feel them … the accumulation.  We search for meaning in all of our day-to-days; a smile, a sigh, a word, a touch, a kiss … a piece of art … a tattoo.

My silly … little tattoo took two years to come about but it was finalized, realized, and decided … in a second.