I write this post just over a month since my Father passed. I have to admit, it feels a lot longer than a month, more like a century. It has been a hard time to say the least.

My Dad was a troubled man, he drank heavily, battled mental health problems, and was alone since my Mother and he divorced. I was 8.

I spoke to him near enough every couple of days, usually to update him with my life, all my troubles and strife and everything in between. He would in turn, bore me with a history lesson of some kind, or tell me the name of an old song he liked that he thought directly related to whatever situation I was in at that time. I deeply enjoyed those phone calls however nonchalant I felt about them at the time. Oh hindsight is a horrendous and sometimes wonderful thing.

I told my Father everything, well everything a daughter can tell her Father without it being weird. I took this very much for granted as I’ve never felt so lonely now. Like there is no one in the world that can or would listen to me the way he once did.

Grief is a funny thing, no two people deal with it the same. We’ve all heard about the ‘stages’ grief entails: anger,denial,depression,acceptance and so on. But ultimately there is no text book version on how to deal with grief. I’m going through the motions day by day, trying my very best to stay positive as I’m sure that’s what he would have wanted.

But to be brutally honest, I don’t think I’ve ever felt pain like this. A piece of me has left with him and I don’t feel like the same person I was before. I would give anything, absolutely  anything just to have one last phone call with him, one last hug, one last anything for that matter. We shall meet again I’m sure, but until then I truly believe he’s watching over me (he better be) : )



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