“I don’t know how to exist in a world where my dad doesn’t.”

This entry wasn’t supposed to be this, but this week I think this is all there is. I’m pinning my heart to the wall, and someday I’ll look back at this and wince, but…this week, that’s all there is.

My dad’s been dead for six years. I live with the fact that I disappointed him, but I don’t know what else I could have done. I had to be me, and sometimes that’s not who your parents expect you to be.

I grew up in a world he made. Carefully. He edited it and lied to us, and I believed it because when you’re a child, these things are bigger than you. They’re so big you can’t do anything but believe. So I believed.

I believed when he said he contracted the disease that killed him from an act of charity. But I knew my father was an alcoholic. A drug user. Who knows how it happened? I never will. And I’m supposed to feel all this guilt and pain over the fact that he’s gone.

But part of me is just glad it’s over.


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