My dad was a good man, he was a pastor. People loved him, he was good to people.
Love is a powerful gift and I believe that their wound, their grandfather's death, will become a gift in time.
Wounds heal. They form scars. As a survivor, the scar reminds me that my father's death is a part of me.
My dad's impetuousness and dreamy nature were both the best and worst things about his personality.
Finally, around 11:30 p.m. on Jan. 17, 2003, the phone rang. It was my mom, divorced from my dad for more than 20 years, calling to tell me that my uncle found my father, Robert Sharwarko, dead in his home.
Since Dad's death, I've returned to a normal life. Of course, it's a 'new normal.'
Since that time, my life has been a mix of complete disbelief, denial, unbelievable anger, feelings of abandonment and betrayal, mixed in with an odd number of days that are almost completely normal.
I wasn't moving on past his death. By getting proactive and starting to look for ways I could help other people, it in turn helped me.
Had I not had therapy and such a warm, open, caring family, I wouldn't have been able to so freely talk about my feelings.
There were good days and promises that he would never try to take his life again, but when you looked in his eyes they told a different story. Mentally and physically he was tired.
Suicide had been the topic of conversation plenty of times in our family. My grandfather—my dad's father—had taken his life at the age of 32. Along with my grandfather there were uncles and cousins that had taken their lives as well.