A Post about Posts

Someone recently wrote a comment on one of my posts asking why I talked so much about my dad. It was intended as a joke, it was not malicious but it struck a chord and it stayed lodged in my anxious and tired brain. It made me furious because it emphasized my blinding feeling of isolation. Of no longer being whole. Because the short answer is that I will unfortunately never be able to stop talking about my dad. My dad not only created me and gifted me with half of his beautiful genes but he was also my very best friend. He owned the eyes I caught when people said dumb things. He was my default board game partner because only he could handle me when we lost. He was my ruthless opponent who pushed me on mile six. He was my guts to do the things that scared me. He was my radio playing country music. He was my light on a dark day. He was mine. And he is gone. Not temporarily gone he is forever gone. He’s not coming back! He. Is. Gone. I wear a body that is half empty. It still functions the same way as it did before. It still looks the same. But it feels indescribably different. I do the same shit but it all feels worse. I walk with a hollowness in my legs. If I don’t talk about it I will go mad. The only thing left of my dad is my memory of him and his essence that lives in me. What is left of my dad is the pain. When I talk about my dad, that is me grasping at what is left of him. If I block that out, if I don’t talk about him, if I don’t share him with you, that is me letting go. He isn’t here anymore so I have to work hard for him. And I would work those doubles for the rest of my fucking life if it meant I could manage to keep even 1% of him alive. I am working everyday to keep myself afloat and to keep him alive. It is what I spend my minimal stores of energy doing. Maybe that job will get easier or harder as time goes on but either way, I plan to do the work. This is my job now. I didn’t apply for it but it is mine. Me talking about my dad is me doing the work. I won’t stop feeling the way I feel, I won’t get my dad back. That’s the shitty part about love. You can lose someone and then you just don’t ever get them back. And the hole that is left in your heart can burn like hell. Tomorrow is Christmas morning and instead of a sparkling tree, I will wake up to an equally devastated mom that I woke up to two months ago. This is not going away. I will not be made whole again. I will not stop talking about my dad because that’s all I got. I too wish it weren’t the case. I too wish that instead of talking and joking about no longer having my dad by my side, I could have my dad by my side. I would give anything to squeeze my dad rather than tell you a story about him. I have no interest in telling you stories about him. I have an interest in keeping him with me and so that is what I will do. I will continue to talk. Thank you for continuing to listen.