Sorry this is long, I just needed to talk and I don't have anyone to talk to.
When I was younger, I used to think that my father always watched over me and helped me in some way.
I don't believe that anymore.
Before I was born my Dad was diagnosed with melanoma cancer, it spread through his body and he died by the time I was 9 months old. I don't have a single memory of him. I wish so much that I had something. All I have is what I have been told.
My mum tells me that Dad was my first word, and that he heard me say it, which Iím glad of.
That everyone loved him, that he was happy, fun and full of life.
He used to sing 'Always look on the bright side of lifeí... even when he was sick.
He built our house right up till a few days before he died, so that mum and I would have a house to live in. It was kindly finished by our local Lions Club, which he was a member of.
He was an artist, and of his 3 children I was the only one to have the same gift.
Sometimes it's hard not to feel like everything would have turned out better if he had have been there. Though it's not something I dwell too much, I sometimes wonder about the things I missed out on.
Mum said I once asked her where my daddy is. It must have been so hard for her.
I remember she cried a lot when I was little. I hated it and always told it was ok, and asked her to stop. We would go to the graveyard and put down flowers and tend to the grave.
It took me a long time for me to fully understand what it all really meant.
When I was 5 my Mum remarried she wanted me to have a father, and even though he let us down a lot he did a lot of good things too. I'm so grateful that I had him as my Dad.
I still recall the when I asked if I could call him Dad. He said I could, and to this day he says how chuffed he was. I still call him Dad, and he always will be my Dad even tho my mum separated from him after 11 years of marriage.
No one really ever talked to me much about my dad when I was younger, and they still don't really.
My brother and sister are a lot older than me, about 18 yrs diff. They are from my Dadís first marriage. (My family is kind of complicated, tho whose isnít these days).
They looked after me heaps when I was little. It was as though everyone was trying to surround me with love to make up for what was missing, they took me places, spoilt me, and were just always there.
Over the years things changed and our family isnít really close like we used to be.
My sister has her own family, and she doesnít make much of an effort to see me like she used to, but I suppose it goes both ways.
My brother on the other hand is the total opposite. Over the past few years he wanted to see me all the time, and constantly talked about my dad. Which should have been a good thing, but it turned out not to be. It makes me so sad to see him and I worry for him, but I now I canít bring myself to see him anymore and for my best interests I canít, at least not till he sorts himself out. However that is a story for another time.
My mum used to have a box of things in her wardrobe that I used to sneak in and look at. There were clippings from the local newspaper of the day my dad died that had msg's from family and friends, the sign book from the funeral, a tape with a recording of his voice to leave a msg on the phone.
A portrait of my dad hung on the wall outside my room for most of my life, and then one day my Mum decided to take it down.
I guess she decided she was ready to move on, that and my step dad was always jealous of my Dad. He thought my dad would always be the one love of my Mumís life.
I wasnít ready for it. She also decided to get rid of the clothes of his that she had in a box in the cupboard. I kept one as an art smock. I figured that it was an appropriate thing to do with it, cos he loved art so much.
I asked my mum for some pics of my dad recently. It took me ages to get me to get her to find the photo Albums cos most of our stuff has been in boxes for the past 6 years. Then she said she would get copies of the ones I wanted, which was 4 months ago now, and I still donít have a single picture thatís mine. I wish I had the memoryís they have.
Recently my sister had the super 88 film which could only be watched with slides on a projector put onto DVD. It wasnít the best quality, but it has my dad on it with a few seconds of him talking.
My mum got given a copy, but I didnít. I borrowed it and played that one section over and over, and imagined what he was like.
It feels as though everyone just wants to forget, and I'm the only one wanting to know who he is still.
I find that because we hardly talked about him, now itís really difficult to talk about.
I never know if it's appropriate to talk about it to others, sometimes I think I shouldnít mention it at all. Part of me wants to though cos I feel as though itís such a huge part of knowing who I am.
The thing is when I do tell others, I feel like itís so meaningless... and I guess it is to them, but itís not to me. I get so embarrassed and have the urge to cry every time I tell someone new. I donít know why it feels like such a big deal to me.
I feel as though everyone else that has had similar circumstances losing a parent at a young age seems to deal so much better with it then I do.
I must sound like Iím complaining, I know it's a part of life everyone has to deal with and I do know how very lucky I am in so many other ways.
Knowing this doesnít stop it from hurting tho, it never used to affect me so much when I was little.
I guess somewhere along the way I lost my strength.
I donít want to deal with it alone anymore.