I should have known I should have known you were hurting but I was blinded by my pride I should have figured something was wrong by the way you held your eyes. I lived in fear and confusion, but this is no excuse. I should have known how much it hurt you, the pain of this verbal abuse. I was so involved in myself and my seemingly “unbearable” feelings. To recognize your obvious grief. When you would flip, I'd say it because you were dramatic. Your brothers and I would laugh about it. We were blinded because of our sarcasm. You hid your fear and depression, with your ecstatic enthusiasm. I should have known it was all a lie. But every time I would just walk on by. I felt you hated me for so long. I never knew it was because of your desperate time. I should have learned to read the room and to use my words with wisdom. You were always smiling, but now I know it was all a mask. Then all your feelings tried to come down, in a crash. That night you tried to end it. I swear I would have been the one. If I had only known about it. But instead, it was the friend, the one who cared enough to know. With a phone call, he ended your decision. When the police came to the door You hid it from everyone, your mother doesn't even know. I found out about 9 months later when I swallowed my pride. We are great now, the hole in our relationship sewn. I just wanted to tell you how much I wish I had known.

a daughter's humorous hope for a mom desperately missed OK, so first things first …of course Mom has Vidal Sassoon himself doing her hair and is looking fabulous! Mom met Nora Ephron at orientation and thought she was a cool chick. The two of them hitched a ride to the party with Ferdinand Porche in his 911. The excitement and grandeur was beyond words. Everyone was still buzzing about their Secret Santa gifts. Mom got a painting of a tree next to a cottage, all signs point to Thomas Kinkade. Soon after arriving Nora made a beeline for Helen Gurley Brown. "Are you seriously wearing nylons in heaven Helen?" Mom is definitely wearing "pantyhose" in heaven too, regardless of their extinction on earth. To the squish squash of rubbing thighs she approaches the ballroom in awe. Spotting an empty seat at Henry Hill's table, she goes for it. "This guy has to have great stories" Even in heaven, the scene is reminiscent of high school; the jocks sit at one table, the politicians, actors and musicians all with their respective cliques. The champagne flows. In one far corner Robert Bork, George McGovern and Arlen Spector can be heard having a spirited conversation about the recent election. Daniel Inouye is clearly the most excited. Ernest Borgnine and Larry Hagman haven't budged from the buffet. Sally Ride has clearly had one too many Tangtinis and is chasing Neil Armstrong around with mistletoe. Richard Dawson leads a rousing game of spin-the bottle. Phyllis Diller is thrilled to be the only woman this round. Andy Griffith, Jack Klugman & Sherman Helmsley don't seem to mind indulging the harmless fun until Zalman King takes things too far.James Herr stops by to offer some potato chips. Oh boy Mom, I know you're a sucker for a man in uniform but don't go stormin Norman yet, he just got there! And now, the moment Mom and everyone else in Heaven's Class of 2012 has been waiting for…Don Cornelius introduces Whitney Houston and Donna Summer! Let the party begin. Mommy could not walk for some time, now she grabs Robin Gibb and dances the night away. She never sits down and sings along to every song at the top of her lungs with boundless energy. Adam Yauch is teaching her to rap though she has no clue who he is. Davy Jones stands on a chair for a better view. Free from physical pain and mortal concerns everyone is smiling & laughing. At last, Etta James takes the stage and slows things down. Dick Clark presides over the big ball drop while the room counts down in unison. The Class of 2012 has graduated and the calendar begins again.

I always looked up to Frank, not just because he was taller than I was, but also because he was my big brother. We were born in an era where our parents taught us to look out for each other; big brothers were to be treated with the same respect as our parents, and they were taught to take care of their little sisters. Frank decided to attend a local college. He enjoyed college as much as he did high school. I always said if he had a choice, he'd be a permanent student. He was that kind of person. Frank was about to graduate from college and my husband, and I were living sixty miles away. Being newly pregnant at that time, it was too far a drive for us to attend. While Frank understood, I was truly upset. I was more upset two days after his graduation when we spoke on the phone. “Hey, Sis! You'll never guess what I got in the mail today.” “An invitation for grad school?” “How I wish! But no. What I received was a draft notice!” “What? Frankie, you only graduated two days ago. What'd they do, mail it a week beforehand?” “Don't know when they mailed it but I'm not going down as a draftee. I'm going to the draft board office tomorrow and ask them if they can change this to enlisted”. I knew many young men from our area in Brooklyn that, like my brother, came home “damaged.” Often, they'd sit and stare as if in a world of their own. Nightmares became their normal sleeping habits. They'd all lost significant weight. Some did drugs, others drank too much. Some never made it home at all. At least, I still had my hero, my brother. He'd grown a mustache. I asked why since he was always so clean shaven. His answer was, “Let's just say, I've changed.” One afternoon while visiting my mom, she asked him to fix the kitchen ceiling light. When Frank raised his arms, his shirt lifted, and I saw three round scars. He never had them when he was a kid. I asked him what happened. He replied, “Don't worry about it. It's over.” Time went by and though I didn't see my brother every week, I did see him occasionally and when I did, I noticed a slight limp. I asked him about it, and he told me it was nothing to worry about – just getting older, he'd say. Just getting older? He was only forty-eight years old. I knew not to push for answers he didn't want to give. I let it go but told him if he ever needed to talk, I was there to listen. Then it happened. A few months later, he was diagnosed with liver cancer. However, he made his doctor promise to keep his medical condition private. Frank wanted no sympathy. He'd fight this disease alone. He was determined not to have his family feel sorry for him. He'd rather die with dignity than pity. He joined the American Legion Post in Queens where he'd moved with a friend. My mom, now lived across the street. Two years later, on Memorial Day, in 1995, his Post in Maspeth was to be a part of the town's Memorial Day Parade. I don't know why, but Frank was chosen to carry the Post's American Flag – an honor given to only a select few. It made his day! He was so proud to wear his uniform and carry the Flag of the country he so loved. Little did we know, that would be the last time he'd ever carry the Flag he so cherished. Little did we know that Frank would wear his uniform only once more. September of 1995, when Frank was just fifty years old, he began coughing severely. Every time he coughed, or maybe I should say “hacked,” his mouth filled with blood. He grew weak and his roommate called 9-1-1 and our mom who called me immediately. We stood their numb. Mom's eyes filled with tears and while she began to shake and hyperventilate, she found no words. I looked at my brother's almost lifeless body and whispered. “How long does he have?” The doctor replied, “Probably only a few weeks – if he's lucky. This is the way he wanted to go. He wanted no one to know, no one to suffer with him.” I leaned over and gave him a hug and kiss, then whispered in his ear, “Whenever you're ready, Frank, just let go. I hate this. I don't want to lose you, but you've already been through too much. Please don't suffer anymore.” Two hours later, he was gone. It's so hard for me to write this while I remember the boy I adored, the man who was my hero, and the brother that cancer had the audacity to take away from us. We honored the wish he'd written and buried him in the uniform he so proudly wore. The photo I've chosen for this story is the last Memorial Day where he was honored by his American Legion Post to carry the Flag of our great nation. This is the photo taken before he died just a few months later. This was Frank's Last Parade.

I didn't cry when she got sick, or at the funeral, or at the graveyard. I didn't even cry when my mother brushed the hair out of my still dry eyes and held me as the undertakers wheeled away her coffin. Mom never said it, but she hadn't approved of our relationship from the first moment I brought Elise home. It wasn't that she didn't like Elise. What was there not to like in smart sweet Elise? Mom had tried to understand us, I knew that. I guess it doesn't matter anymore. The next morning, I awoke alone. The sun moved shadows across our bedroom while I just stared off the edge of my side of the bed. I was waiting for something, the smell of her coffee I think, but nothing came to snap me out of this fog. Was I supposed to be doing something? Breakfast, I guessed, though I didn't feel hungry; I didn't feel much of anything to be honest. I went into our pantry anyways and saw row upon row of canned sauces, fruits, and preserves she had prepared for the long winter ahead. The shelves were filled with Elise's preserves and her light curled handwriting. I picked up a Mason jar and stared through it without seeing the diamond shapes etched into the glass or feeling the paper label as my fingertips absently traced the word ‘strawberries' over and over. I didn't see the bags of flour and sugar or the boxes of her favorite cereal crowded together on the mint green shelves in the cramped little pantry. I was back in July, sweating as I hauled in another tray of fresh picked strawberries. She would have picked them herself like every other year if she had still had the strength. I smiled and laughed when I thought she was looking and stole glances at the scarf wrapped around her head when I thought she didn't see. I opened my mouth to ask her again why she was doing all of this and wouldn't she rather fly away somewhere to lounge on a beach? I closed my mouth without a word, we'd fought about it enough and her answer was always the same. “I don't want some crazy trip. That's not me. I just want every day I can have with you,” she would say. I knew she just wanted her life- a normal long life- and it was the only thing I couldn't give her. I hefted the jar turning it over and over in my hand, puzzled by the weight and feel of it like some alien artifact. The jar ate away the cold numbness wrapped around me and I couldn't push away the itching burning feeling rising from the pit of my stomach. I clenched my fist around the jar as if it and it alone had taken my wife from me. I couldn't stand the sight of the wretched thing, it brought anger to a boil suddenly spilling over onto my carefully sealed up resignation. I flung the jar with all my might at the pantry wall, red exploding over a bag of chocolate chips, syrup and glass and strawberries falling to the floor. A low guttural animal yell erupted as red as the strawberries and I hardly noticed it was me spewing anguish and rage at the rows of silent glass jars until my throat grew sore. I slid to the floor completely boneless without anger to hold me up, rocking back and forth holding my head with both hands as if it might come loose without a firm grip. My whole being shook, tears making cold splotches on my pajamas as I sobbed there on the floor of our pantry. I felt like my insides had all been scooped out leaving me hollow and empty, blankly staring at a bag of dried beans as if they could anchor me to the world again. The smell of strawberries touched me tugging me gently back, not to the world around me but further back to a moment with her. The bright sweet fruit conjured up that birthday cake she had made filled with our first strawberry harvest, and how we sang and kissed that night joyfully celebrating life. I looked up at all her jars: the tomato sauce recipe we'd spent years perfecting, the peaches from her mother's tree, the BlackBerry jam she hated but still labored over knowing it was my favorite. I saw her there, all her work and planning and love, every moment of our lives together laid aside here giving me a million tiny roads back to my life with her, if only for a moment- a taste. My vision blurred again as tears flowed, gently now, onto my cheeks. I nodded my head imagining her beside me, gazing at me with that secretive smile. I whispered to her, and to myself, “I see what you did, my clever wife. Thank you.”

Me and Grief, we dance a lot. The rhythm is slow, then fast for no reason, And he steps on my toes. What an asshat.

I dance a lot on a strange dancefloor in a nightclub for two. Grief is somehow both my dance partner and the DJ. He tweaks the music From sad and slow to wicked and fast. I try to keep up, and he steps on my toes. Who put him in charge? I don't like his rhythm.

It is a dark night like someone has poured black ink all over it. I am looking outside of the kitchen window adjusting my chin against the window's iron rod after finishing up my everyday household chaos. It has become a routine for me to stare outside of the window every night since she has decided to leave me alone in this earth. I have kind of figured out that in an entire day, emptiness and silence of this moment is what truly belongs to me. The electricity poll in the edge of the street makes a shadow when the deem light from our neighbor's garden reaches. I, just like every day, try or pretend to draw a human-like image around the shadow: an image of a holy spirit from the stories I have heard, an image of a soul wearing human body, an image of HER. I know it sounds silly, but I cannot stop grieving and I have been stuck in all the ‘could have' and ‘would have. I could have asked her how she was feeling when she was here or just silently stay beside her to let her know that she still has not lost everything. I should not have lost her to realize what I should have done. So why wouldn't I look for her? Why would she choose to leave me? Why she never thought necessary to let her daughter know what was killing her deep inside? Is she really in a better place now? Didn't she know that a part of me will die with her? I vividly remember someone said that ghosts, spirit and souls are only in our imagination, they are seen because they are inside of our head; It has been approximately 400 days that she has decided to leave me and I have been imagining and drawing picture of HER every night but the ghost inside of my head never jumped out of my imagination and showed up Infront of me. When a pigeon comes to my terrace seeking for food, I presumed that it is her in the form of a pigeon. But if it is so, when I tried to get close, why it would fly far away like it is going to disappear in the sky and never going to return? Maybe they are right, who leaves this earth never returns. But I have always wished for your return, at least once. I have a lot to ask…. I have a lot to say…. And again, I realize what is the point of asking and saying? what is the point of saying everything I could never say when she was here with me? What is the point of making her feel guilty for leaving me like this? If she tells me why she chose to leave, can I bring her back or can I make it right? Then, what is the point of digging into her suffocation that will do nothing but kill me a little more. And just like every night, when I am done looking for her, I say to myself ‘leave it' while closing the window. And when I am getting out of kitchen, I turn back again to check: Maybe I will see her tonight?

Dear Grandpa, It's been 2 weeks since you departed from this earth. They say only time can heal grieving, but I find matters may grow even more sad with the passing of months. The more time goes on, the longer it's been since I heard your voice on the phone or experienced your laughter. I never want to forget the sound of your voice. The last time I talked to you, there was a problem with your phone. The last words of yours I heard were "I can't hear you dear" as I repeated, "Hello? Hello??? HELLO?". I didn't know at the time that would be the last chat I had with you. I didn't know that would be one of your last days. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. I remember when I was a little girl and would hug your legs really firmly from behind. That feels like a separate life, long in the past. Yet, it feels like a vivid, not so distant memory all at once. Oh, how time flies. You lived your life and you lived it well for 89 years. What more could anyone ask for? Now, I'm relived to know you're free from isolation, boredom, and pain at the nursing home, even though it aches my heart to accept you're not here. Writing may seem untrendy in this modern day, but as far as I know it's the only thing that helps me cope, a medicine. We must never forget our dear loved ones. I continue to write about our memories together. Grampy, watch over me and please stay in my heart. Love, Your Granddaughter

The image of my brother standing limp with his head drooping to his side invades my mind again. It is how I imagine he must have looked when he was lifelessly hanging from a rope. After my other brothers told me they found his body in the garage, I sprinted over in hopes to see his laughing face that revealed it was a hoax. My mom stood outside and ended my run by giving me an aggressive hug - a tight, aching squeeze that only a mother of a dead child can give. Her intention was to prevent me from seeing my brother, Edward, dangling from the ceiling. Even in her most fragile state, the primal instinct of a mother protecting her child remained with her. However, the silhouette of my brother's wilted body was created by my subconscious that night. It permeates my thoughts when I am in a vulnerable frame of mind. When Edward's image enters my head, the same question stands before me: have I learned from his death? Loving someone who has committed suicide can throw you on a desperate hunt for meaning. Mourners want to prevent the suicide of someone else. We have this yearning to be able to stop others from taking their own life since we could not stop the death of our loved one. Beyond this, we grieve differently. For me, guilt dictated my life. My guilt stemmed from my lack of belonging with my family and the belief that Edward would have blended so much better if he were still alive. I have been described to be the most annoying, stubborn, and sensitive family member. Even before starting elementary school, I asked my mom if I was born into the wrong family. Maybe Death was supposed to take someone from my family that fateful day, but He left with the wrong soul. The impact of my guilt was deeper than morbid thoughts. My actions ruined my peace. I became hypercritical of myself during arguments with my family. Even when I had justified reasons for being angry, the same pattern continued. First, I reflect back to the bickering that my 11-year-old self had with my brother before his suicide. Then the image of his slumped body forces itself to the forefront of my mind. This prompts the stage where I ask tortuous questions. How would I feel if my other brothers or sister died while we were in a fight? Is Edward disappointed in me for not getting along with everyone? Have I REALLY learned from his death if I do not maintain peace with my family? The last step begins after my self-loathing overpowers any valid anger I have. This is when I forgive people out of fear of being on bad terms rather than because they feel remorse. I performed this unhealthy routine for nearly two decades. Then a traumatic event happened. Feeling that my siblings did not support me exacerbated my mental health in the aftermath of the trauma. My siblings are people who would prefer to keep negative sentiments out of their conscious mind, whereas I am the type that believes that pain is the inevitable step for resolution. I frustrated them for bringing up the trauma I experienced because it was uncomfortable for them. At the same time, I was exasperated they chose to be oblivious when I was suffering in front of them. After years of ineffective fighting, I wanted to divorce my family. However, the image in my mind did not let me. Then I came up with a healthy idea: family therapy. My family needed to address our unresolved issues. I could not continue ignoring my hurt just to keep relationships. The trauma did not let me. I hoped this would be the method to get my siblings to see the agony that doing nothing can cause someone who needs support. My mother was invested as she longed for her children to get along. No one else was. This shattered my heart. My mom and I still went to therapy, and it taught us so much. For example, the honesty I spewed to my siblings never got through to them because they were too distracted by my cruel words and raised voice. More importantly, it gave me the clarity that I fought against. Instead of uncovering a secret way to be in harmony with my family, I learned that a person cannot force others to be invested in a relationship if they are not willing to be vulnerable. Sometimes, we have to find peace in the fact that there will not be peace. I continued to recognize and work on my faults. My destructive thought pattern was envisioning my brother in a way that added more stress onto me. I realized I forgot what he looked like when he smiled. This painful realization resulted in me rummaging through old photos. I found a picture of my siblings and cousins where Edward looked to the side with a wide grin. I had to be intentional about imagining this laughing face during distressed times. It was unnatural at first. Now, I feel empowered during difficult moments because I see a smiling brother who is proud of his indignant little sister. There are times when the old image is my intrusive thought, but it is now rare, and then it is replaced with the new image in my mind.

Reality Sets In There are days that seem to be harder than others. No matter what is going on in your life, it can get tough. A moment full of smiles, becomes a weight of a sudden sadness that seems to cover you. There are times when life seems to turn upside down is compounded by whatever is happening in your world at that moment. Trust being broken. What you began to think was real, became a mixed up ball of lies and uncertainty. Life can seem cruel. Days can be warm but the nights can get cold and dreary. The doubt rolls in and the dread of another night alone sets in and reality adds to the grief and pain. Questions begin to rise. Fear begins to creep in. Add to all these, loneliness that engulfs your mind and body. Your eyes close, but rest doesn't come. Peace is no where to be found. Love seems like a distant memory. Reality is all to real. The remaining years alone, with no one to share your inner most secrets and desires with. No one to make memories with. All you have are the past moments in time that you remember. The pain, betrayal and the good times. Questions still unanswered. Hugs that will go unreciprocated and kisses never given. Once grief is put into its place, reality and loneliness becomes the feelings of the day. As you come to the realization that this is your life. It is not the life you envisioned as a young newlywed, living my twilight years alone, but it is my new reality. I wondered if I would be capable or even comfortable with a male friendship. I had an uneasy feeling of cheating on my husband. (Yes the one and only that is healed and happy at his new heavenly address) it was a big mindset I had deal with, pray through and learn from. I did not want to do or say anything that would harm his memory for my kids. I didn't want to feel I abandoned our life together. I had to realize that the biggest love of my life and the most painful heartbreak I have ever gone through (in our life together and in his death) was not going to change what my future was, being alone. For the 45 years of our life, we were together. He was my existence along with our children. Then in an instance, it was over. We were no more. It was simply me, Alone and lonely. Life is definitely different. Meeting and feeling comfortable with someone is a big challenge. Which is why, I'm still alone. After 45 years and now wondering about meeting someone new is scary as hell. Trusting and believing what someone says is scary as hell. I don't know if it will ever happen, but I'm going to enjoy the Journey. There is so much more to losing a spouse, especially after a long time marriage. It involves loss, grief, loneliness, fear of the life alone, and trusting. My one constant is knowing I'm not really ever alone, I have my Savior and I am guided by the Holy Spirit (no I don' t always listen), but knowing I walk with God, even when I push boundaries, is a comfort and a strength. I am blessed! A Journey Through Grace By An Ordinary Woman-Cheryl

Life is a strange thing. When you're alive, you have a life, yet when you die, life carries on without you. My Grandfather, Joel Henceroth. He was a big man, both in his presence and in his heart. Standing at over six feet tall and over 300 lbs at his heaviest, he cast an imposing shadow that would almost strike fear into a young child's heart- and then dispel it just as fast when he offered you a ride on his lawnmower or on his shoulders. He was a man of faith. He started the Celebrate Recovery program at our church, a program which has helped hundreds of men and women beat their addictions to drugs and alcohol, and overcome past abusive hurts. He lived in Ohio, then England when he was deployed in the Air Force, then Virginia while he worked for a radio company, then finally in South Carolina, where a brief stint in home development was killed by the real estate crisis. My own father has been absent and abusive emotionally, and my grandfather stepped in to fill as much of that spot as he possibly could. He read me stories when I was little and my mom was working. With the help of my mother, he helped me get my first dog, Happy, and my first two fishes, whose names were lost in the sands of a five-year-old mind. He took me to movies and to lunches and let me take naps on his chest. When I was older he always came to my school programs and listened to me try to tell him stories. He bought me a guitar, and he taught me how to play it, took me to Olive Garden on my birthday- we'd split the Chicken Parmesan. I ate the chicken, he ate the spaghetti. He did what a father should, and I owe him more than I could ever have repaid for the love he showed me. Because my grandfather was such a big man, he was in danger of his heart failing. So, he had an experimental gastric bypass surgery that added years onto his life, but also ultimately ended it a decade later when his body could no longer absorb the nutrients needed from his food. He had to walk with a walker, he couldn't remember how the microwave or the TV remote worked. He started falling regularly. My family moved into my grandparent's house to help my grandmother care for him, and then to help her cope when he went to the hospital. After the hospital, it was home to hospice care, where he passed away surrounded by his closest family, those who loved him the most. Grief has a way of making the pain unbearable while dimming the memories connected with itself. My grandfather was a big man, and even after he lost so much weight, the hole he left in my life was huge. I couldn't even listen to guitar music or look at on Olive Garden without feeling a lump in my throat, a pressure that made it hard to breathe. But grief also has a way of not fading but sweetening those painful memories over time. Eventually, you can look back on those times with love for who you lost, rather than feeling such pain at having lost it, to begin with. Eventually, you can go sit in an Olive Garden on your birthday, order the chicken, and reflect in wonder you can eat both parts of the meal by yourself now. Eventually, you can sing along to their favorite Christmas songs with a smile. Eventually, you can pick up the now too-small guitar he gave you, press your fingers to the strings, and play. And life, as it always does, will carry on around you.

Grief. We all experience it at some points in our life. The death of a beloved pet, the death of a loved one. It comes for us all, eventually. How do you explain that feeling, though? If you haven't lost someone yet, how do I explain that hole? How do I explain trying to fit that square peg of their memory into the round hole of the loss in my heart? Especially when that peg is spiked and tainted with negative memories of abuse and neglect. The person who is gone wasn't a saint, they weren't even a good person, but I still miss them! Amanda Palmer's song “The Thing About Things” put it so well. “If you aren't allowed to love someone living, you learn how to love someone dead.” No one stopped me from loving my father when he was alive except me, and it's a damn good thing I did, too. He was toxic. He was abusive. He was neglectful. He was manipulative. He was everything negative that you shouldn't have in your life. And now that he's gone, I'm trying to learn how to love his memory, the GOOD parts of his memory (because, despite all the negative, there WERE some good parts), and it's so damn hard. Every time I think about him, I think about how he hurt me and how he hurt others around me. Every time I think about his memory, I think about his mental illness that he refused to get help for. Every time I think about his presence in my life, I think about how adroitly he manipulated me every time he was in my life for any length of time. I can't extract the good from the bad. I can't just remember the man who was there for me when everyone else bailed. I can't just remember the man who taught me, as a toddler, about life and death by explaining that he couldn't resurrect the dead grasshopper on the asphalt. I can't just remember the times we would talk and laugh and share stories. I can't just remember the man who took me to San Francisco when I was a teenager, for my 13th birthday, because he knew I loved the city. I can't just remember those things, because those memories are constantly crowded out by the bad ones. I write Dead Letters to him on occasion. The irony of doing so now that he's actually dead is not lost on me. I tell him how he made me feel, how he screwed me up, how much I wished he would have been a better dad. I learned the routine back when I was a kid, from a counselor who gave me many tools to deal with an absentee father. So I write my letters and pour my heart out to a father who never would have read them anyway, even before he died three years ago. Now it just feels pointless, and I realized today that somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought I was writing them to get my thoughts in order to confront him. I honestly thought, deep in the subconscious, that I would be able to talk to him about these things someday. I don't know what I expected to happen, but I thought it would be… cathartic. Some closure. Release. I hoped for it, since I was a little girl--the chance to confront him about what he did to my psyche with his behavior--and now I am faced with the stark reality that I will never get that chance. I don't like permanent doors closing on me--ever. I've never been good with that. I struggle with goodbyes, I struggle with permanence… let's just say I have “commitment issues”. Even when I was a kid, I was afraid to put stickers somewhere, for fear of finding somewhere better later. Now that anxiety plays out in various ways in my life, all because I'm terrified of something going wrong later. That “future fear” is something I've always been afraid of, and it has led me to catastrophize almost CONSTANTLY about the people in my life. When my father died, one of my biggest Future Fears came true. It was one that was in the back of my mind for decades--I even had nightmares about his death, some in which I even killed him myself--but this time it was really happening. Now here we are, three years on, and I still can't process the permanence of it. I still remember his phone number, and every once in a while I will reach for my phone to call him, to try to reach out one last time. I can't parse in my brain the fact that he is actually GONE. The reality of his death is so much different emotionally. I have lost people before, but never someone that I simultaneously loved and loathed. It has made grieving for him difficult. I swing between missing him and hating him, between wanting to talk to him for reassurance and wanting to confront him for the abuse. I am a strange dichotomy of grief. My grief is an ugly animal sometimes, eating me up inside. Other times it lies dormant, just a hole in my heart. Every once in a while, I smell his smoke in the elevators at my apartment building. When I go out for my last smoke, I try to time it where the light is just right, and it reminds me of him--of the good times with him--and I put on music in my earbuds that remind me of our good times.