Deadbeat

It’s been a year and half since I lost my father. Not literally anyway. But people don’t need to know that.

People ask questions. And sometimes, most times, they are not ready for the answers. Even if they were, I am not. Not yet anyway. They don’t need to know that.

There were no goodbyes.

I left home one day, and when I tried to return, there wasn’t a home to return to.

I dealt with the new change like I deal with every major change in my life. I keep it moving. I move on, and keep going till it becomes normal. Then it hits me, hard. When it does, I ride the wave of depression… Or whatever comes with it.

It sounds like I throw the word depression around a bit too loosely to be taken seriously. Truth is, I never knew the name of everything I have been dealing with since childhood. And now that I do, I’m scared to accept it. Call it by its name. So I throw it around instead, hoping it loses balance and falls off the grid. Never to return.

Through some of those dark times, for all of his flaws, my father was there in his own way. Though most of the time, he was the trigger anyway.

There is something about losing someone that makes you remember them as better people than they really were. Perhaps it’s a coping mechanism. I’m not sure. I’m not particularly glad about that.

It’s been a year and a half since I lost my father.

I hope I don’t see him again.

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