This past week my dad’s turned 61, and I’m proud to say that he and I have become close friends as we’ve both aged. This piece is difficult for me to write because I make some assumptions about my father’s state of mind from when I was suffering deeply from depression that may not be accurate. After all, my recollections are coated by a thick coating of depressive ash, but I know for a fact that as he and I better understood depression and suicidal thinking, the more we were able to relate to one another.

“I’m going to beat the s&%t out of you when I get home,” I yelled to my dad over my psychiatrist’s speakerphone. I was less than a month out of the hospital from my first aborted suicide attempt by hanging. My psychiatrist was trying to find a combination of medications that would ease me out of my severe depression while leveling out my mood. Saying I was “on edge” is the politest way of describing my attitude at the time. I was angry.

Angry that I was still alive. That I didn’t have the inner-fortitude to end my life. And that anger was unjustly directed at my father. He was the easy target because by his own admission then and now, he has never experienced a suicidal thought.

The idea that someone hasn’t had a suicidal thought doesn’t make sense to me, and suicidal thinking is still very foreign to my father. He understands it conceptually, but lived experience is another level of understanding that I’m grateful he’s never experienced. I’m grateful for that now, but in my late teens and early twenties, trying to explain my thoughts to my dad was like trying to explain the colors of a rainbow to a golden retriever.

The message didn’t translate. I was an angry, sick, and intolerant communicator to pretty much everyone then, but more so to my dad. I’ve since learned that it is nearly impossible for the human brain to learn new lessons while under severe stress, and it is equally as impossible to try and teach a lesson while under similar stress. I wanted my dad to understand what I was going through and to stop giving advice that he did not have the expertise to give, and to stop trying to fix me.

Looking back, I’m ashamed of my behavior. I can understand it and explain the source of my rudeness, but I said and did things to my dad that I deeply regret. I’m sure he feels the same way in some of his behavior toward me during those years. I was in a dark forest of depression and a yearning to end my life, but I never realized that he was in a dark forest just as frightening as mine.

My dad loves me, and I can only barely begin to understand how scared he must have been coming to grips with his first-born son attempting to end his life. On top of that, not understanding why I wasn’t reaching out for help, being honest about the thoughts I was having, and why I would blatantly lie about going off my medication without my doctor’s supervision. He’s called me his rock ever since I was a little kid, and it has been only until recently that I realized how much my disclosure about multiple suicide attempts, several hospitalizations, all kinds of medications, and qualifying for electroconvulsive therapy must have shaken what was a stable foundation for him.

I was generally a pretty good kid. Decent grades, couple girlfriends, always respectful, and gave good handshakes since I was five. How scared must he have been when I first told him that I tried to die? I can try, but I’ll never be able to fathom just how must that must have shaken him.

Ultimately, we had to establish an armistice in our communication. Boundary lines were drawn around certain subjects. I would go to mom if I felt I was sliding into a serious depression. That felt easier to me, and mom would be able to share with dad about a subject that I was simply incapable of addressing truthfully with him. Part of that was due to shame, and part of that was due to my mom having lived experience with mental illness. On top of that rule, we established that he wasn’t to make any jokes about my depression or anxiety.

As my readers know, I’m a lover of humor, but when my dad used it to try and lighten the mood when I was still gripped by severe suicidal thinking I went to DEFCON 1 — my finger hovering over the button to burn the world down. That wouldn’t be good for anyone, and while I know my father’s coping mechanism is humor (one aspect of his personality I’m glad I inherited); it was impossible for me to accept his jokes while in that depressed state. It felt insulting, infantilizing, and patronizing. All the more so because I knew that he didn’t have experience with the thoughts I had.

This truce persisted through my twenties. My mom was the primary any time I had an episode, and my dad took a back seat. I imagine this must have hurt him because he is all about being on the front lines, but I needed his support to be from a distance and I’m forever grateful that he respected the boundaries we set.

As I’ve learned about my depression and how to better deal with the suicidal thoughts that enter my mind, my dad has also learned more about mental illness. How pervasive it is in society, how it goes unacknowledged in young people until things get serious, and that learning more about how the brain develops is a boon to him as a coach of young athletes. I’m still tickled pink that he gets coaching insights from the articles and videos I put together, which help make him a better coach.

I vividly remember my dad telling me as a young teenager: “I’m your father, not your friend.” This was after I was complaining about some rule or restriction that he imposed that was for my own good, but not what I wanted. A friend would have folded and let me do what I wanted, but a father sets standards and is rightfully stubborn about enforcing them.

I love my father. I was angry with him when I was young and sick. I’m glad he and I grew to better understand mental illness, but I’m even more glad that we have come to better understand one another.

Most of all, I still count him as my father, but, unlike when I was little, I am honored to now count him as my friend.