He Was Different

I start to write something that I feel would be significant to someone and play with my hair. I get angry about the hate and politics going on, and then I just don’t care. Overdoses are at an all-time high, and it doesn’t feel like my problem anymore.

My dad died. Damn. It just hurts. As the tears are streaming down my face, I know that I am not the only person to lose a parent. Even as I’m writing this, I’m thinking of my friends that have lost parents before me. Parents that I was close to. And I want to say, probably what everyone has always wanted to say. But he was different.

But he was different.

My very first memory ever was being at a carnival of some sort. I was probably 2 years old or so. My dad had me on his shoulders. I was happy. I was safe. I only remember the moment and the feelings. But happy and safe are definitely the memories I have from that day.

He was different.

When I was really young, I kind of remember turmoil in my home. My dad was an alcoholic, and I remember the fights between my parents. I remember my dad’s huge mood swings. I remember sometimes being afraid of him.

Different.

He overcame his alcoholism when I was around 5. I remember the change in the atmosphere in my home. My dad did whatever it took to restore “happy and safe” in…