Death, Grief, and Tony Soprano
I didn’t expect that at 3am this morning I’d be on the floor howl-crying after watching the series finale of The Sopranos, but grief’s like that sometimes.
It’s been almost a year since my dad died and for the most part I’ve found a sort of peace with it. I wrote extensively about the immediate aftermath of his death in my book The Devil’s Death: Your Satanic Companion for Grief and Dying - our estrangement, the history of abuse, and how dealing with the death of an abuser can trigger an incredibly complicated grieving process.
The physical numbness, fear, and anger have mostly dissipated since then. I’m able to think about him without anxiety. And, the guilt and sadness show up less.
The last time I cried about him was during my book release for The Devil’s Death at The Puscifer store in Jerome when I did a reading from chapter on grief - Anguish as Alchemy. I wrote it immediately in the wake of his death.
But, last night, grief hit me in unrelenting waves. It was the seven-year anniversary of The Unveiling of Baphomet in 2015 which I helped orchestrate. The event was a catalyst for our estrangement. Aside from a few fucked up text messages and voicemail harassment from him, we hadn’t seen or spoken to each other since then. The last time he texted me it was my birthday last year - he asked for money and when I refused, called me crazy.
He was a self-destructive person, buried by addiction, anger, greed, entitlement and ignorance. He was raised in the Catholic church, an altar boy of course. By the time I was born he stopped going to church, but he’d still pop by the Catholic store every so often to get prayer candles. On those trips, he’d lie to the sales person and say that he was buying them for a church so he could get a discount.
He exhibited a sort of machismo that was a cheap mask for the insecurity and fear that was rooted deep inside him. He lied, cheated, and treated women terribly. He rarely took responsibility. He never apologized. He was a scared and angry little boy in a man’s body that wanted everything and gave nothing.
I inherited my love for music, movies, glamour from him, as well as many traits too private to mention.
I started watching the Sopranos this summer after a recommendation from a friend. It wasn’t a show that I thought would appeal to me, but once I started watching it, it felt familiar. The men felt like my dad and members of his family. Their looks, attitudes, pride, ethics, violence, and way of moving through the world were so similar that in some strange way it felt like watching the show was re-connecting me to them. It brought back memories I thought I’d forgotten. In a small, strange, way, it helped me understand them.
When the credits rolled for the finale, that connection was severed. Something snapped in me. An emotional storm hit as the tears flowed and I was on the floor. I cried for myself, my dad, my grandparents, all of that family that I’ve disconnected from and the ancestral trauma they carried. I felt free. I felt like I started to forgive them.
Although I’m a private person, I share this story and will continue to share my experiences to illustrate the varied and unpredictable nature of grief. I hope that as you work through your grief journeys you are able to open up to the strange, often mystical and mind-expanding experience it brings. I hope you give yourself the compassion, patience, understanding, and love you deserve.
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You can learn more about grief in Shiva’s book The Devil’s Death: Your Satanic Companion for Grief and Dying
