My dad died on Valentine’s Day from a cancer in his brain that he fought for a year and a half. I’ll talk about that more one day, but what I want to say now comes from the buildup and the fallout. What I want to say is not about the suffering and turmoil that I watched my dad and my family experience for that year and a half, or the milestones we hit every day that I never mentioned, like the last day he had ice cream or went outside. I want to talk about him and I will. But today, I want to talk about the aftermath. People don’t know what to say about death and dying. They tell you they’re sorry and they could never do what you’re doing, they tell you how strong you are and graceful you’re being, admire how you’re “back to work” or “still able to have fun”. Grievers are told time and time again, nobody knows what the right thing to say is. And we have grace. Giggle it off and nod our heads, tell them thank you and it’s okay. Because it is okay. They aren’t doing anything wrong t...
I have absolutely no idea who I am. Some days, I hear stories about me, aged 6, picking flowers to bring to mom while she does her makeup in the ensuite. Other days, I remember red-faced tantrums, screaming at the top of my lungs, ready to burst wide open into flames. I remember being bullied so, so badly. And I remember wondering how badly I messed up to deserve it. I remember talking badly about that girl, and feeling really guilty for doing it. Sometimes I am the girl who hosts parties, sometimes I am the girl who leaves them early. Sometimes I’m a good friend and other times I am poor, terrible, no-good friend. Sometimes I beg for people to love me, because I have so much good inside of me. Sometimes I wonder why anyone at all could love a monster like me. Sometimes I sit in my apartment and I can almost see myself, aged 11, walking in through the door and crawling into bed beside me. She hates her hair being touched, but loves her back tickled, and I listen to her tell me about ho...