I cry at least twice a year.
On Father's day and on the 1st of October.
Usually at night when I am alone, in the comfort of my own bed.

Sometimes I actively try and avoid these feelings by pretending that I'm not fazed. Desperately trying to convince myself that I'm ok:

- "Yes my dad is dead, so what?"
- "It was 6 years ago."
- "I've come to terms with it."
- "I'm at peace with it."

- "Life goes on...."

But does it?
Does it really?
No it doesn't.

For as long as I live, deep down inside the depths of my soul will reside a small boy still longing for the validation of a father figure.
A naive son trying to make his father proud.
A vulnerable, sensitive child trying to navigate through the chaos of this cruel world that we live in.

Life doesn't just automatically continue and I cannot and should not pretend that it does.

I don't usually write about death or grief or sadness or mourning. But over the years I've come to learn that we need to explicitly acknowledge and work through our emotions. Instead of continuously dressing them up and then tucking them away where nobody can see them.

What I've realized by taking time to grieve - even if only for a few minutes twice a year - is that I clearly have a whole lot of emotions pent up inside me. And I know that if I don't deal with them directly, they will continue to manifest in all sorts of ways. Whether it be through ill-health, obscure career goals or wayward relationship dynamics.

Anyways, back to the bi-annual tear festival, while I listen to Promises by Ben Howard.

I'll pay a therapist to deal with this mess.

Happy Birthday Dad.

We miss you.