#1

Alcoholics, like cats, have got 9 lives. Like cats, alcoholics have no fear of physical repercussions, only of themselves, their minds; jump out of a tree? Drink 3 litres of vodka in a night? No problem, bring it on! If we die, so be it, if we survive, we live to see another day. Only, as we know, those 9 lives always, always run out eventually.

It's been nearly five months since Dad died, we think, but do not yet know for sure, from a tragic alcohol related accident and every day at some point, for a split second I think "Ah Dad, he'll be back from Ireland soon" and then, immediately after that thought, like a punch in the face, "oh yeah, he fell, he died, he's not coming back".

The immediate trauma and shock of what happened back in December may be beginning to fade but that now leaves behind a numbness and disbelief which is equally hard to fathom.

Grief is such a weird thing; it's like a dark, shadowy figure; 9 out of 10 times you go about your life quite normally and happily and then the tenth time, it jumps out of the shadows and grabs you, it invades your day and your mind, leaving you anxious, sad, despairing of the future. Then it disappears again, back to its dingy hole and your life carries on. But you know it's there, you know it will reappear again.

Apparently, writing things down and talking about things is cathartic and God knows, I need the catharsis. I have so much I need to get down, to record, to relay about my Dad, his life, our relationship, the ups, the downs; my journal of a fundamental relationship between father and daughter. Would he like what I want to write? Not always. Will everyone else like what I share? Probably not.

Well they can write their own story because this is mine.