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Dealing With Death

The Death of My Father

By Kyean SmithPublished 6 years ago 4 min read
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Part 1.

My dad wasn't a bad man. He didn't have the easiest upbringing; having multiple older siblings that looked after him most of the time. He grew up in Luton surrounded my family. He met a woman and had a child, and then met my mum and went on to have four more children.

We grew up really close, in Luton, also surrounded by friends and family, until an incident in the maisonette we lived in; a machete was thrown nine floors above us, out the window, down into the "garden" area where my little brother (around three or four at the time) and his friend were playing. They were very lucky boys, coming out with only a few scratches, but enough for my mum to suggest a move, down to Salisbury where she had grown up.

I was ten years old, moving from my friends and family. Of course I was upset, and I hadn't considered how either of my parents felt about it, either—of course you don't at that age. But looking back, it must have had quite a toll on them as they both were diagnosed with depression, both unemployed with four children, living in a three bedroom council house. As long as I remember, my dad was unemployed, my mum worked as a nursery nite after completing her childcare courses. I remember all the courses she studied for when I was younger. I'm so proud of her. I know she's struggled. I can't imagine how she's feeling these days.

We were all in school and my mum worked. From the beginning, my dad had always been working on this computer game. He was a big tech head. He knew everything about computers and more. He would sit at home, on his three-screen computer setup and work on his game. Since moving to Salisbury, he hadn't really made many friends. It was quite a conservative city and being one of the only black men in the city, felt quite isolated and uncomfortable going out on his own. He became a very introverted man. He did this every day until the day my mum had managed to get a small car. It definitely was a good project for him to work on, and something that gave him his freedom once again. He would always be out driving it, and then it broke down and he went back to the computer, teaching my brothers what he knew and what he could. Also, once me and my sister had grown up, I think he felt it difficult to somewhat relate to us and we had many arguments, many to do with how we wanted to look and dress, etc., and how he disapproved. Obviously, with hindsight, you perceive the situation differently, but at the time, I thought he wanted to suppress our individuality and took it very seriously. Every little thing he said over the dinner table, I felt he said to wind us up, so we would start fights and I hated it. I hated him. We didn't speak for three years.

The arguments between him and my mum got to my younger sister as well, so much so, she moved out. And I helped her. She was struggling with school and also dealing with depression and many other mental issues. I had to help her the most I could and if she felt moving out would help her, of course I wasn't going to say no. She also didn't have much contact.

But it wasn't only until I moved to London for university that we started to rebuild our relationship. He now had a silver Vauxhall Vectra. He had tinted the back windows black, the alloys black, wheels black. He once drove all the way from Salisbury to my halls in London because I was homesick. We got McDonald's on the way back and just had such a nice time listening to all his songs. Such bangers.

We grew close and I know it sounds stupid, but we started hugging, and it was the nicest thing. I hadn't hugged my dad since I was maybe seven or eight, and then, at nineteen, to hug my dad, I just felt so safe. It's such a shame and I almost hate myself for being so stubborn as a child, as he was all the time, but I wish I had more opportunities to feel that safe again; to be able to hug him.

I miss him.

grief
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