lacrosse22
June 18th, 2014, 03:03 PM
This is honestly my last hope to find closure or to even feel the slightest bit better.
Let me just warn y'all, if you don't want to listen to petty grief and a rant, stop reading this and go help someone else.
My dad died on the 26th of April. He was a drunk for 7 years. I hated him when he was drunk, he was the best dad when he was sober. I'll just recap that day since I've been reliving it for close to 2 months.
I woke up around 9 in our vacation house: we had just signed the final papers that Wednesday. He was drunk all weekend. Like, extremely drunk. He was screaming on the third story balcony. He finally passed out, and my mom and I literally took the chair and dumped him inside the house. He didn't wake up because he was so intoxicated. We couldn't leave him on the floor of the family room cause my younger brother had a friend and they would be coming back any moment. My mom took his feet and I took his head and we dragged him down the steps into a second story bedroom. I told my mom to put him on his side so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit. We left him in the room alone and closed the door. A few hours later, my mom and I went out to KMart to buy a few new things for the house. We came back at the same time as my brother, his friend and my grandpa. It was around 8:30 or 9ish, so dusk. I put a bag from the trunk in the kitchen and walked back outside. By the front door, my grandpa said "Nicolette, your father, his face is blue" or something like that. But I was so pissed off at him being drunk, and between that and my grandpa's thick Greek accent, I thought he said "his back is blue", which would make sense from him bruising. I was grabbing a bag out of the drunk when my mom screamed "Call 911! David! Call 911!". I ran inside but couldn't bring myself to look inside the room. I knew he was dead. I ran onto the back porch of the house and tried calling my friend in Canada. Ambulance workers and paramedics rushed inside the house. The next thing I remember I was walking down the steps and asked one of the paramedics if he was dead. His response was a sigh and "the medics are working on him" but his eye's told it all: he was dead. About 20 minutes passed by and I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to get out of the house. I grabbed my shoes, told my grandma I was leaving and ran. I ran so fast and so hard I didn't stop until a crosswalk. I had a plan to go to my family friends house. The father of the family was friends with my dad since high school. A firetruck pulled up next to me and the man who I had talked to got out and ran after me, asking me where I was going and wanted to make sure I was okay. I told him to tell my mom that I was going to the family friends house and I kept running. When I finally got onto the porch of their house, I knocked. When my dads friend opened the door, I just cried and said "my dad is dead" and he hugged me and took me inside. I sat on their couch, called a friend and eventually fell asleep.
I have been reliving that day for the past 2 months. My 15th birthday is tomorrow, and I don't want it to come. To me, it isn't worth it. His birthday would have been on the 21st, and since our birthday's were so close, he would always call me 'the best birthday present he ever got'. I was such a daddy's girl, he called me buttercup and when he wasn't drunk we had the best time.
I'm crying so hard right now I'm finding it hard to breathe. To me, none of this seems fair. I feel so selfish. I've known people who had their dad died at seven, and yet I'm feeling so sad and so depressed and quite frankly so alone. I just... life sucks.
I'm sorry for the rant... I just needed to get all that off of my chest.
Let me just warn y'all, if you don't want to listen to petty grief and a rant, stop reading this and go help someone else.
My dad died on the 26th of April. He was a drunk for 7 years. I hated him when he was drunk, he was the best dad when he was sober. I'll just recap that day since I've been reliving it for close to 2 months.
I woke up around 9 in our vacation house: we had just signed the final papers that Wednesday. He was drunk all weekend. Like, extremely drunk. He was screaming on the third story balcony. He finally passed out, and my mom and I literally took the chair and dumped him inside the house. He didn't wake up because he was so intoxicated. We couldn't leave him on the floor of the family room cause my younger brother had a friend and they would be coming back any moment. My mom took his feet and I took his head and we dragged him down the steps into a second story bedroom. I told my mom to put him on his side so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit. We left him in the room alone and closed the door. A few hours later, my mom and I went out to KMart to buy a few new things for the house. We came back at the same time as my brother, his friend and my grandpa. It was around 8:30 or 9ish, so dusk. I put a bag from the trunk in the kitchen and walked back outside. By the front door, my grandpa said "Nicolette, your father, his face is blue" or something like that. But I was so pissed off at him being drunk, and between that and my grandpa's thick Greek accent, I thought he said "his back is blue", which would make sense from him bruising. I was grabbing a bag out of the drunk when my mom screamed "Call 911! David! Call 911!". I ran inside but couldn't bring myself to look inside the room. I knew he was dead. I ran onto the back porch of the house and tried calling my friend in Canada. Ambulance workers and paramedics rushed inside the house. The next thing I remember I was walking down the steps and asked one of the paramedics if he was dead. His response was a sigh and "the medics are working on him" but his eye's told it all: he was dead. About 20 minutes passed by and I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to get out of the house. I grabbed my shoes, told my grandma I was leaving and ran. I ran so fast and so hard I didn't stop until a crosswalk. I had a plan to go to my family friends house. The father of the family was friends with my dad since high school. A firetruck pulled up next to me and the man who I had talked to got out and ran after me, asking me where I was going and wanted to make sure I was okay. I told him to tell my mom that I was going to the family friends house and I kept running. When I finally got onto the porch of their house, I knocked. When my dads friend opened the door, I just cried and said "my dad is dead" and he hugged me and took me inside. I sat on their couch, called a friend and eventually fell asleep.
I have been reliving that day for the past 2 months. My 15th birthday is tomorrow, and I don't want it to come. To me, it isn't worth it. His birthday would have been on the 21st, and since our birthday's were so close, he would always call me 'the best birthday present he ever got'. I was such a daddy's girl, he called me buttercup and when he wasn't drunk we had the best time.
I'm crying so hard right now I'm finding it hard to breathe. To me, none of this seems fair. I feel so selfish. I've known people who had their dad died at seven, and yet I'm feeling so sad and so depressed and quite frankly so alone. I just... life sucks.
I'm sorry for the rant... I just needed to get all that off of my chest.