Dealing With Death or The Art of Letting Go

It’s been 8 years already since I lost my Dad. The years literally flew by. Some say time heals all wounds. Well, kinda but not really at the same time. I still have my weak moments, occasional meltdowns. These things just come and go and I’d say the only thing that changed is that I finally learned how to live with them. I never hold back when I feel like breaking but I know how to recover and contain my feelings. That’s the thing. Containing the feelings. If I sunk into the memories, images, conversations that roam around in my mind I don’t know how I’d manage to stay sane. The emotions I fight with the most are guilt, regret and longing. They could tear me apart if I let them but what sense would it make if I became a depressed, nervous wreck? It’s not what my Dad would want. I believe that I live the exact life he’d wanted me to live. And I believe he takes even better care of me by not being physically present all the time. Although, physical absence can feel awful, indigestible I like to think that it has a purpose, a meaning. A meaning that I couldn’t grasp before although it’s incredibly simple: my personality is shaped by all the good and bad that destiny, God, or the Universe brings in my way and I was destined to experience the absence of my Father. I’m a person who only can live to her full potential if she embraces and learns to handle the pain it creates and turn it into something great: like being more appreciative, aware and thankful for the beautiful people that surround me. Everyone learns the lesson one way or another and you have to know that it’s for the best and you have to know that it’s part of who you are and it was always meant to happen that way. It doesn’t mean that I don’t think about him every single day, because I do. That’s just how I practice the art of letting go. Never completely, though. Only the things I couldn’t change because I don’t have the power to change them. It doesn’t mean that I don’t think about him every time I take a sip of my coffee, or don’t want to call him every time I get a good grade at school, it doesn’t mean that I don’t have a hard time breathing whenever I smell cigarette smoke and it doesn’t mean that I don’t feel the urge to turn the world upside down to find him somewhere and have a conversation because I feel like I need to know how he is, what he’s doing and wether he’s proud of me or not. It feels like shit, to be completely honest but now I feel so strongly and so passionately about the goals I want to reach that I’ve never thought I would. I use all this pain as resource to create, give something to others and when I finally achieved something I just see him smile. And it’s almost enough. Almost satisfying. Just almost. This is how I live with him, without him. If you’re in the same shoes, you know it’s an art.

Thank you for challenging me, Dad. I love you. Always.

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