Dear Dad

My dad, as I’ve always mentioned, was a good father but the worst husband.  I literally mean those adjectives in their respectively word forms – “Good” and “Worse”! He had created raucous in the house; I have terrible memories of him cursing, abusing mom and even getting physically violent on her. I remember every detail of those incidents right from my childhood. It angers me – literally boils my blood like right now and I can’t even imagine how mom has tolerated his torture all these years until his death and post that, she’s so heartbroken and mourns for him every day – even after two years of his demise. I’ve always hated my dad when I was growing up – through middle school. But once he got retired, I really got to see the man behind all the violence and anger. I remember him taking me to learn to ride the bicycle and just sitting idly on the ground. I remember him crying as I watched him from a distant. He spoke out – explained his troubled childhood, how his dreams and desires were cut short by social norms and loads more. I call him a good father because of those 4 years, I’ve bonded really deeply with him. I got to know him more – more than anyone else did! No one else would hardly believe whatever he confessed and told me but having said that, I’ve not forgiven him from my troubled childhood, all the mess in my life and for all the distance, especially now when he’s dead – like for 2 years.  I knew that man loved his daughter deeply and I was his world, only where his heart was. I came to know why I never got whacked by him even when I did something damn serious. In those 4 years, we had become great friends. I believed in his strength and his potential to protect me. He wasn’t a man who’d cushion me from all troubles but he’d make sure that I got back stronger. So, I believed him! I trusted his voice when he told me that “HE WOULDN’T DIE UNTIL HE SAW ME HAPPY” more than what was written on the medical reports. I remember the exact corner of the sofa from where he’d firmly stated this.  But a month later, there he was, dying in front of my eyes, his hands turning cold in mine. I was alone when I was growing up. I’d never felt the void until it had been filled once and then vacated again. I dream of him a lot. I know I’m dreaming but it feels so freaking real. Waking up is devastating on those days.
I just want to see him once, even at the cost of death and tell him how’s life now! I just want to cry in his arms. Be like a baby again. I’m so done with my soul trapped in this 20 years old body. I don’t want to see mom at the pain every day and no more pretend like his death hasn’t affected me at all. I’m done with my therapist and friends constantly asking me to pull myself up. Life’s a mess and please let me go! PLEASE!