My father struggled to talk with me. But he found the words when it mattered most

This First Person column is the experience of Siobhan Kellar, who lives in Calgary. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

My father used to sing to me as a baby. As a preschooler, I'd insist he change the lyrics of "Yellow Submarine" to all the colours I could think of as he held my hand on our way to buy Coca-Cola on Saturday mornings.

I was delighted by his songs, and then, as a teenager, I wasn't. My cheeks would burn and I'd steep in shame when he'd hum along to the radio, always out-of-key, as he shuttled my friends and me to soccer practice.

My dad and I had a difficult relationship. 

I think that he was afraid of big emotions and overwhelmed by them. I don't really know why. He grew up in England and moved to Canada by himself during his late teens.

As for me, I had undiagnosed ADHD as a child and a sleeping disorder that made me restless and irritable. I reacted to conflict by retreating and searching for a space I could control. 

When we tried to communicate, it seemed we'd trip on hidden triggers. Music was the only neutral territory. He introduced me to Oasis, New Order, The Kinks and LCD Soundsystem. Some of our most intense conversations were indirectly transmitted through the tinny speakers of his maroon Mazda.

"Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64?" and "We can work it out" from the Beatles are still etched in my heart. I understood that he wasn't just sharing music. He was saying he would be there for me and love me no matter what.

That was enough until my first year of university. That's when my dad moved out of our family home and my parents initiated their divorce. I should have seen it coming; they'd been fighting since I was little but it still hit hard.  

Unable to do anything about my parents' problems but feeling the pain of their separation, I took to controlling my body instead. What began as trying to eat better rapidly morphed into bulimia. A year later, I was seen at the eating disorder intake in Calgary. My heart was weak and I required hospitalization.

My dad picked up toiletries, slippers and pyjamas from Walmart and drove me to the hospital. I pretended not to see him cry when he hurried out the door.

Days turned to weeks and I had to take a leave from university. The loneliness hit me on Saturday nights when I sat in my hospital bed, miserably commenting "Congratulations!" on friend's Facebook timelines as they celebrated the end of term. 

With my headphones on and only a curtain for privacy between myself and the other clients, I'd listen to Bon Iver on a loop and let the tears come. I wanted to quit the program, which could have been a death sentence. 

My dad must have recognized how the stakes had shifted. During visiting hours one unseasonably warm spring day, he snuck me outside for a few minutes of sunshine. We exited the cafeteria doors to the loading dock.