Grief is a strange thing. They say it comes in waves. It surges through you, crashes over you, tosses you like a maelstrom and dumps you out the other side, tattered and ugly and broken.
A few months ago, I lost you, Dad, and right now, I’m struggling to ride those waves.
For a long time, I’ve deflected my grief with anger and hurt, grateful that as the alcohol poisoned and deteriorated your mind, and your body weathered and withered, it stole your libidinous rage, too.
I took refuge in the mellowed husk that was left, whose memory travelled through space and time, grasping random facts to weave into deluded fantasies. The man who wept to be seen, without the loathing and contempt, the lecherous disdain. The misogyny. Because at least those fantasies weren’t venomous and treacherous.
We had a tumultuous relationship at best. At worst, it was harmful and creepy. You lacked boundaries and a sense of propriety. Stole my sense of healthy sexuality, bodily and relationship autonomy.
I still remember the day I witnessed my boyfriend’s dad greet his daughters with a kiss on the forehead and a big bear hug, and it devastated me. A hug from you was never comforting, nor safe. It was navigating perilous waters with hidden undercurrents.
But lately, I recall the rare moments when you got it right. When you seemed to get me. The misfit. The nerd. The one with too many goddamn feelings. In a family who told me I was too much. That I over analysed. That my ideas were over the top. Whose interests made no sense. Who marinated in giant concepts and delved into literature and history and writing.
Somewhere in there was the man who bought me Lego and computer games, who brought The Dark Crystal home from the video library because it might be something I was into, who took me to the cinema to see The Never Ending Story and rode with me on Space Mountain, who let me prattle on for hours about medieval torture and dead languages and all the exciting concepts I learnt at uni.
And these are such small things, but they matter. Because even though I was too much for you, too, it was something. When you took me to debating and to music performances, when you let my friends hang shit on you, it wasn’t nothing. It was on the periphery of being seen. Of having someone to engage with when everyone else was so different. When I didn’t fit in anywhere. But sometimes—just sometimes—I fit in with you.
And I never said thank you, because these moments always felt tainted. You were there because there was something in it for you. Whether that was to perve on my friends, or because you had nerdy interests, too, or to play the hero dad to your colleagues, or because it was the bare minimum. With one word you could convince me you had seen into my soul, and with the next, revealed yourself a stranger.
But we had a privileged life because of you, and later, mum, too. Not flashy or posh, but comfortable and fun, even if it was a fringe benefit. And again—that’s not nothing.
And though you weren’t a huge presence in my life for many years preceding your death, I am grieving your loss. Not only the loss of the father you weren’t, but the father you were, too. And that’s new.
So, I want to say goodbye, and that I love you, even when I hate you. Because you’re still my dad, and maybe that’s enough.
