this right here’s a panty droppa
it’s the tug and pull that gets me every time like it gets me so high i forget to worry about not being pretty enough for him, not funny enough or smart enough, just not good enough but it gets me so high i almost feel enough
you may be gone but you’re never over.
i love you, daddy. rest in peace.
since his passing, i’d been feeling like a hypocrite for a while. why the fuck was i crying so much, feeling so much, hurting so much during his last few days and the ones after? what the fuck was i doing before then? i’d still loved him before but not as fiercely and as consumingly and definitely not as unconditionally as now.
but as i stood before everyone in the parlour and started talking about him, i realised why.
when he was stronger, he wasn’t a good husband or father. maybe he didn’t know how to be. but when it was good, the first ten years, it was amazing. we were happy and high as fuck but when he sank and brought us down with him and when my mother was able to find her footing for her children’s sake and dragged us out of that slump with him so we could breathe, he got mad at us and started hating us and hurting us and everything good in him became bitter because we were stronger than him.
and it’s very very difficult to love a man like that. you keep trying and trying but he keeps pushing you away and keeps trying to hurt you and hurt you and hurt you until you decide you’ll just love him from afar and that’s what happened over the years until it was reduced to weekly lunches with silence so loud and then shouting matches even louder and every single visit ended up in tears and heartache and me leaving angrily and swearing that would be the last fucking time i ever visited him.
but when he became weak, it was safe to love him again because he didn’t have the strength to lift up his hand and flip me the bird, to stare me dead on and say ‘fuck you for being the shittiest daughter in the world’, to tell me my mother was a whore who slept around when i was a child to buy me the clothes on my back and me screaming back so what if she was a fucking whore if she was? at least she got off her arse and worked for her kids. at least she was working. so so fucking what? and the nurses would come in and tut tut and judge me with their lacquered gazes with reproachfulness and reaffirm that i was in fact the shittiest daughter in the world for screaming at a man who was immobile. he didn’t have the strength to hurt me or my mother anymore and i could finally feel the love i’d once felt for him when i was his little girl flood back into my heart. and i could love him with all my being again.
so no, i’m not a hypocrite. i’m a better person, a stronger person because of him. and now that he’s gone, i’ll be even better, not because he’s not here, but because i find i can love him truthfully and will always remember him and miss him because he has become, in my heart and mind, the perfect loving father i’d once known him to be.
i no longer cry because of sadness or misery or pain. there’s been this thorn inside of me for so long and now that it’s finally out and there’s a gaping hole and i feel no more pain and hurt, it’s uncomfortable. it’s discomfort and it’s going to take a while to get used to especially when i think about how we all get lost but some of us remain lost for a very long time or never get found at all and i’d like to believe that in the last few hours before his demise, he found himself and peace within himself and love for me again when he held my hand and didn’t let go.
i love you daddy. rest in peace.
i don’t know if he can see me or hear me but he squeezes my hand and doesn’t let go and it hurts that that’s all i can do for him anymore
dad’s finally home after six weeks and it’s been twenty four hours but Sir Aadi still can’t believe it
feel my light burning out like i’m losing myself again but smile smile smile wider and brighter and louder and harder because no one likes a scene
he can’t see very well so he says to her, who are you. pat, she offers uncertainly. my pat, he asks. your pat, she whispers and starts crying.
it’s about me too. i’m sorry, he finally says. i’d do it different if i could. she shakes her head. we wouldn’t have got her then, she says and points at me. you’ve done a great job with her, he says. she shakes her head again. to be fair, she did most of it herself.
he loves you, you know, my uncle says. he lights up when i say your name. that’s the only time i see something in his eyes.
i love him too.
I'm not into romance, I love me a good YA series. I like witty, and dark and moody. I recently read all of Augusten Burroughs' books and loved them. I love really funny, fucked up stories. But something heavy that makes me cry is good too, I just like to feel things. Ha.
jason myers does good YA fiction. you should start off with ‘dead end’.
graeme simison’s ‘the rosie project’
and have you tried roald dahl’s adult fiction? a lot of people just think he writes for kids but he’s dark and twisty. READ HIM. a lot of short stories that will just flip you the fuck out.
Recommend some books for me plz plz
if you’re into romance, i’ve chanced upon mhairi mcfarlane who isn’t nauseatingly so. i read ‘here’s looking at you’ and it was so lovely that i’m now reading ‘you had me at hello’.
if you’re looking for lighthearted but funny as fuck and just amazing amazing amazing, try ‘where’d you go bernadette’ by maria semple.
i’ve been diving headlong into all of paul aster of late though and i find him dark and moody but he can get heavy for me sometimes.
oh, and i’ve been reading a lot of young adult fiction for book club with my kids and i read rainbow rowell’s ‘eleanor and park’ the other day. crikey, i cried too much during my first reading of it and i could not put it down. and david levithan’s ‘every day’. another fucking tear jerker.
what’s your genre though?
How do you have time to read so many books?
mostly because i’m a bum.
i’m very blessed in that i mostly get to work from home (i plan and develop curriculum) and i’m a fast worker and i only teach twelve hours a week now. i don’t sleep very much. i don’t go out much (
because i have zero friends and negative social life people ugh who needs them) and after years of obsessive reading, i read quite fast. so yea.