I Meant to Write…

I meant to write.

I give you my word that I did.

As a matter of fact I sat with my fingers tapping away at the keyboard saying what it was that I had to say, at least until I didn’t feel like tapping any more.

As I put my thoughts into words on multiple occasions during the long gap of time since my last post I didn’t finish a single blog as I was no where close to hitting publish.

Surely I had some level of growth since my last post that I could share with public.

I figure the most I could have done was finally make additions to the different unfinished sections of my website

But I didn’t feel like sharing my vulnerabilities. I didn’t feel like sharing any tips or qualified to assist.

Which may seem odd since my blog has been based upon me writing about my self love journey even as I go through the hard times of my life.

And yet when one of the hardest tragedies I had ever faced came I really wanted to wait until I was much stronger to expose my thoughts to the world.

But apparently I’ve mustered up some level of strength to share, because here I am tap, tap, tapping away.

Well what was the thing that caused me not to feel like writing.

Was it a break up?

No.

Did I get laid off again?

No.

Am I ill?

No.

So what caused me not to want to share any more?

Well….. this summer following a tragic accident my father transitioned from this world into the next.

There will be no more phone calls with his voice on the other end, no more seeing him drive his car up the road or him dropping money on the ground pretending it magically appeared and telling me that it must be for me to have.

Now there are glimpses of him in my dreams, memories of him I hold dearly and stories that I will retell.

After his transition I put things that belonged to him in each room of my home to include the closets.

I carry him with me always.

For a while I wore his old army dog tags under my shirt, just to feel close.

And yet as much as I miss him it isn’t something I like to share.

I like to pretend that I understand that while he is no longer here in physical form that he is always with me and that I’m at peace with that.

When my dad died, I felt like there was no time to cry.

What I mean by that is that after losing my dad I finally learned that when you are an adult and lose someone that close to you in relation you really aren’t afforded a proper chance to grieve.

In my case there were police reports, paperwork from the coroner, visits to the funeral home and the notary, helping to clean out my father’s home, calls to work about missing days, contacting the insurance company, picking out the urn, traveling across different state lines and so much more that had to be done.

Thankfully, other relatives stepped up and did the lions share of things so that I could sit back as the baby girl of the family and simply miss my daddy.

At my dad’s funeral I stood there and spoke without shedding a tear.

I thanked the guest for coming.

I did a really good job of pretending to be strong.

When my family sat there crying I told everyone to stay encouraged.

But boy did it hurt.

The first man I ever loved left this earth in a tragic way and I had to deal with that lost love.

Losing my dad broke my heart like no one else ever did.

And yet the heartbreak was different.

Because unlike unrequited love I lost someone who loved me dearly.

Every time my heart ached I would think of how much my father loved me and like a warm wave washing over my heartache it would ease my pain.

My father’s love for me healed my broken heart.

And ironically my father’s tragic death also helped to give me new life.

You see, after my dad died I was getting ready to lay on my couch and feel sorry for myself.

I figured no one would blame me.

My dad just died in a tragic accident and if anyone deserved to feel sorry for themselves it was me.

So I wrapped myself in my blanket and right when I was getting ready to collapse my body on the couch cushions I remembered how much my father worried about my well being.

I remember how my dad wanted me to be okay.

And I knew that it would grieve my father if he knew that his death caused me to enter into a deep depression.

And so in that moment I chose not to be depressed.

I chose to not dwell in the grieving process.

I love him and I miss him but I will honor him by not burying myself in pain.

Does it hurt?

Sure it does.

But with his strength running through my veins the pain does subside.

I am my father’s daughter and my father wants me to be okay.

July 29, 2018

Today I decided to step into the shoes of the first man I ever loved. They are too big for me to fill, too big for anyone to fill. I can put them on and walk in his energy and for a precious moment in time he is one with me. As I sit here in my father’s shoes my favorite memory of him cradles me, it comforts me, it gives me the rested assurance that he is more than a memory and there is no need for grief… And so I sit here in the present reliving the past where my father and I pulled the tabs on our cans making the crisp, clear, distinct sound of a soda being opened and I would sit there a daddy’s baby exhilarated as we satisfied our thirst with Pepsi. We let the ice cold drink splash the back of our throats and cool our tongues in a way that only a taste born in the Carolina’s can do and then I would look at him and he would look at me and in sync we would open our mouths wide and say “ahhhhh”. No, the shoes will not be filled, but I can pop open a Pepsi and say “ahhhhh” and somewhere in a not too distant dimension he says “ahhhhh” right back.

Renata Nicole

© Renata Pittman Smith and RenataNicole, 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Renata Pittman Smith and RenataNicole with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.