So I have decided that I would use my online journal to tell stories from my life, things I have never told anyone or even spoke about in years. I’m the type of person who tries to stay strong for others, so much so that I don’t fully grieve myself. This will be my own little way of getting out all of my thoughts and feelings through the darkest times in my life and maybe help someone along the way.
So yesterday I started off with a story of how my best friend had used me, manipulated me and left me. Today’s story is about my fathers death.
I never knew much about my father, I still don’t? he left me and my mother when I was just two weeks old. Apparently he liked too drink. A lot.
From the age of two weeks old until I was 8 I had never met my father. Until I started to question my mum about him, as a young child would often wonder. So, one day my mum went all the way to Glasgow to meet my dad and managed to get him to agree to meeting with me. We met a few times, I was his double! Same eyes, same hair.. It was so strange. The memories I have of him aren’t so great, when I first met him it was very awkward. Neither of us knew what to do or say. He stayed with us for a night, that was until his girlfriend called in the middle of the night highly intoxicated demanding for him to go home. So he did. He hopped on the first train home and left. I never seen him after that, not a call, a text. Nothing.
At the age of 12 I had found out that my father had passed away. On New Years night he tried to break up a fight at a party, and one of the guys pulled out a knife and stabbed him. 12 days later he died in hospital. I will never forgive his family for not getting in touch with me to let me know, 12 fucking days. I could have went and said goodbye, but not a word. I find that unbelievably selfish. Everyone else had that chance, including his other daughters. What made me so different? Why didn’t I get that chance?