Six months ago I lost my father. I can remember him for more than thirty seconds without crying, and the medications are working somewhat. The last thing Dad and I ever said to each other was "I love you". That alone makes it hurt less because he left knowing I didn't actually hate him, and wherever he is now I'm sure he knows I still don't.

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A close friend of mine showed me a wonderful time and I felt the closest I've ever felt to joy.

So excited!

Gather round, dear children, and I shall tell you a Christmas tale unlike the ones you’ve heard before. You’ve heard the tale of Krampus, but I can certainly top it like a star on a tree. This is a tale of horror. A tale of revenge. A tale of two Clauses.

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I still can't stand my brother's mother-in-law (she's homophobic, stuck-up and called me a fat whore at my niece's party) and I'm taking her advice. She actually highlighted passages in the Book of Job to tell me that my father's death wasn't my fault.

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I really wish there was a word for this, but I'm still terrified and extremely depressed and yet I'm cold and empty. Going to ask my psychiatrist if she thinks I may have started to develop PTSD. I saw his soul leave his body. That stays with you.

I'm nervous about the memorial service on Tuesday because I'll be reciting a poem I wrote and I'm scared I'll break down and cry.

It's been a day since Dad officially died, and we have the funeral arrangements made. I'm plagued with suicidal thoughts and nightmares because he died in front of me. My throat is on fire from screaming and crying and I don't know how I'm going to survive without that ornery buzzard to make me laugh when I want to cry.

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My father died in front of me. I had just started to reconnect with him too. Sure, we fought viciously but at the end of the day he was still my father.

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Left to right: My sister, me, our dad

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