Every time I think I’m okay, I quickly realize that I’m not. The sun goes down and the lights go off and I can’t sleep. I will never receive another “goodnight, love you” text ever again. I will never smoke a bowl and watch a comedy with my father again. No more rides in the pick up truck or petty arguments. No more birthdays or holidays. I will have no one to walk me down the aisle when Eric and I finally do get married. My father has been dead for three days and I can’t fucking change that. We don’t even know why he died. He was 41 years old and when he went to bed on May 16, he didn’t wake up the next morning. Why? Why does anyone decide to die so young? The night before I texted him that he should take care of himself and to remember that I love him. He told me he was strong and would dust all the bad off, he was just looking for a chance. He wanted to have weekend barbecues again. He was burnt to ashes today. Maybe that’s what he meant by dust the bad off. I can still hear his voice ring in my head, as he steps outside of his truck to pay me a visit, slips off his sunglasses, and puts out his cigarette. “Hey, baby” while he gives me a hug.
I drown myself in television and movies. I get lost in someone else’s stories. But I know that can only last so long before I snap.