No Matter How Much Time Has Passed, The Loss Of My Father Still Aches In My Chest

Nick Wilkes

On the 20 th of June, it will be four years since my father died of a stroke. Four long, brutal, painful years, that I have absolutely no clue how I managed to survive. Somehow, I managed to go for four years without slitting my wrists or jumping in front of a moving bus. Somehow, I managed to use my ache as armour instead of attaining employ of it as a weapon for self-destruction. I am here today, still inhaling, building mistakes but still constructing it to the next day without drowning in the black hole that my fathers absence left in my life.

That sounds like a miracle. That sounds like something I wouldnt have believed was possible if you had told me this four years ago.

See, I do have daddy issues. Its no secret. Everybody knows that. Like, everyone. I have been open about my pain for a very long time now. Hell, I even wrote and published a book about grief, my spirit bared wide open for the world to see because I could no longer keep the pain buried inside me anymore. Its out in the open, its clear as daylight.

I have daddy issues and, I am wholly unashamed to admit this .

Zero f* cks given.

I wont be rosy and shallow about demise. I wont tell things like because lets face it; we both know it wont.

The people who say that grief is an excuse to host pity parties and acquire sympathy clearly dont know what it feels like to experience loss.

If you know loss, you know that there is a mark that heartache leaves which cannot be scratched off .

I have sat for hours in front of the mirror, looking at my face and the fact that it is so similar to my fathers, and I have tried to coax my imagination into being my accomplice, in helping me picture him looking back at me. It sounds like madnes, but grief stimulates you do things, any number of things, that might bring even the tiniest bit closer to your dead loved one. Oh, we know they cant come back. We know they cant be resurrected.

But we sure as hell do try.

When people look at me and say I feel divided between rapture and desolation. Delighted to be his clone, but painfully aware that its not the same thing as having him around.

Its like having a photograph of a rose. You can look at it for as long as you like, but you are able to never be able to hold it, feel its texture, get pricked by its thorns, be comforted by its petals, reek its fine fragrance, water it, cherish it, protect it .

All you can do is stare. Eyes raw with a thirst that never dies.

And to add insult to injury, every year Fathers Day is always a couple days before his death anniversary. Its like I am presented a full course dinner when being served sorrow. Starters, main course, dessert. The commercials and adverts start early, sometimes even as early as March, and as June opens its doors all you see everywhere is

I dont need reminders. Lucky me; I have days that remind me to be a sad hag. They are dedicated to me sitting and drenching my t-shirt with tears.

I wrote a lyric today. I wrote a lot of poems today, while sitting and reminiscing about everything that my brain could think of. Most days I try to keep a check on my thoughts, attaining sure that I dont sink into despair, because believe me; I can sink very easily. You only dont see it happening as an obvious visual because Im a master of disguising it. I could be writhing in agony on the inside and all you would consider on the outside is my lopsided smile as I eat a burrito and say to you elephant jokes.

It might voice odd but I am at my most weakest, and strangely the strongest, version of myself in June. Not that I am ecstatic every other day , not that I am deeply sad on every other day, but this month brings back memories of finality. I cannot remember and yet I cannot forget so many things. This conflict fees away inside me, and gets blended in my verse. I write about loss, death, grief and ache a lot more now than I do on other occasions, simply because it is mending to me , now more than ever. It is how I connect with my dead parent. My writing helps me arrange my broken pieces orderly in front of me. My writing helps me listen more clearly to the shriekings and the sungs raging away inside my heart and in my head.

I miss him, I miss my father, I do. I actually do.

So I write selfishly in June. I write for me. I write for my ache. I write to somehow resurrect my father, at the least in my writing, again.

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