Every now and then, grief likes to remind you who’s boss. That reminder has been tonight. An emotional punch in the gut. The realisation I’ll never stand in the kitchen in Wales listening to Father drunken argue with me about something I know more than he knows. The kitchen floor is slate so it’s always freezing, as a result, I’m in the thickest socks you can get. Father, regardless of the weather/ time of year, would be in shorts. Always.
I had a very emotionally fraught relationship with Father that primarily revolved around his lack of ability to state what he felt and my lack of ability to feel secure as his daughter. The combination was a winning failure to communicate. I wrongly assumed I had time to sort things with him. I wrongly assumed that one day, my insecurities and his pride would step aside and let us both say what needed to be said. That’s never going to happen now. Tonight, I’ve been hit by a wave of realisation. I wish I told him I loved him. I wish he stood up for me. I wish I could have one more hug whilst we stood drunkenly listening to Radio 4 or Bob Dylan whilst Father was faffing with a joint of meat meaning supper wouldn’t be served until 10pm.
The last few weeks haven’t been good. I’ve hit a low on a few fronts and I feel like things are spiralling. Thoughts of wanting to disappear have ironically reappeared. I’ll get through this, somehow, as nothing will be as hard as watching Father die, but wow, the year of firsts hurts more than I could have ever imagined
I’m in bed crying but I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face. Showering was a step too far in the self care ladder of things but at least I have minty fresh breath. Food has been good, which means the thing I’ve been using to not feel emotions is no longer pushing the emotions away. The result? Lots and lots of tears, but hey, if I’m crying this much, maybe I’ll lose weight, water weighs a lot right?