1/10/12

Dear Dad,

Tomorrow it will be exactly one month since you died. It's an auspicious milestone to say the least, and I think it will be the first of many incredibly hard anniversaries I have to deal with. The first Christmas was so soon after you left us that it hardly registered to me. The first day of 2012 was harder, since it was officially the first year I would have to live without you. Since then, some minutes have been much harder than others.

I have really thrown myself into my knitting so that I could keep my brain occupied. I mastered the pattern that was giving me so much problems and it felt like I was slowly beginning to bring my brain back too. It has been held captive by so many bad thoughts and horrible feelings... it's been a long time since I've gone a day without thinking these bad things, but they are getting fewer and farther between.

I sent off my application to Evergreen so I can go back to school. Since you died, I've been more potently aware of the things that keep me together. School, the pantomime of learning, is one of those things. I want to throw myself into getting my second degree the same way I have with knitting. Mostly to keep my thoughts in a path that I can control, but also to do something that you would be proud of.

I know that tomorrow is going to be really difficult. I already worry about the thoughts I'll have, and how I'll deal with being home alone while Andrew is at work. I've thought about going to the cafe and knitting there but I don't think I could talk to anyone without immediately blurting out "My dad has been dead for a whole month," or breaking down and crying. I don't know what to do with myself tomorrow, and that seems to be the theme to many of my days.

Today has been harder than others because of pain. Actual pain this time, not anguish or anything so vague. My back hurt from the moment I woke up, and my shoulders and neck feel like I've pinched a nerve. Probably how I've been sleeping. Regardless, I haven't been able to do a lot of the things I'd normally do to keep occupied. I have been forced to sit on the couch, and either knit or watch Netflix or play on the iPad. It's little things like that which cause cracks in my concentration and allow myself to think of the things you'll miss. That's when I think about how badly I want to have a family and how you'll never see them. I think about how you wont see my graduate with this second degree, or how you'll never get to see our new life in Olympia when we move this summer. I think about the last visit to made to Moscow and it makes it so much harder to leave this place and go somewhere that your memory doesn't exist.

I just miss you so much, Dad.

1/2/12

Dear Dad,

It's only been a few weeks since you have died, and I am starting this blog so that I can write to you. I don't know where this is going to go or if it is going to help me, but I can't stand not talking to you.

The day that I heard you had a heart attack was the worst day of my life. I was driving to you when you died, and while I know there was no way I could have made it in time I still feel so guilty for not being able to say goodbye. I hope you know that I was racing to you as quickly as I could. I have never hated living so far away before.

The first Christmas without you was painful. I kept waiting for you to come down the stairs, or fall asleep on the couch while we watched movies, or stand in the kitchen doing dishes after every meal. When the house was quiet was when I waited for your footsteps. I knew you weren't there, but I kept hoping with every fiber of my being. But if wishes could come true then I wouldn't be writing this letter, would I?

I was doing laundry while Andrew was at work, and I was just struck with an overwhelming sadness. I miss you so much and I know I can't ever talk to you again and it kills me. These letters are going to be the closest I can get. They're all I'll have.

I have so much to say, but I have no other words than I miss you. I love you. I wish my heart wasn't breaking every time I realize you're gone.