My father used to visit at least once a week. He would call about an hour beforehand and I would rush about cleaning the house before he arrived. It was a great system, no motivation required on my part.

There are no more visits now, and I forget that about three times a week as I make coffee for one, as I see something that he would have found interesting, when I just need to talk to someone who knows me and doesn’t judge.

I like to kid myself that I’m okay with my own company, but I suspect I’m just very good at distracting myself. Quiet moments of reflection tend to send me into a bit of a depression. It’s probably why formal psychologist settings just feels like running razors through my feelings every visit, and 50mins every few weeks never gives things a chance to heal, or receive enough treatment to heal anything.

I hate people saying things to me like “it’s the first Christmas” or “birthdays are hard” no shit Sherlock, that’s up there with “some people have it worse”. It doesn’t help, and I’m still mad about the whole situation, so people trying to help are walking in a hell of a minefield, because I was a prickly son of bitch before they added grief, trauma, and some poorly medicated depression into the mix. I’m both grateful for peoples attempts to help, and completely incapable of accepting that help.

I miss my dad, he was genuinely my best friend, and it sucks that he is gone.