"Not a memoir but memories"

First of all, and for those who don't know this yet, I'm Portuguese so I'm preemptively apologizing for any mistakes you may find in my writing. Many people say my English is very good but I believe I still have a lot to learn. I'm trying to keep this blog in English so I can reach as many people as I can but obviously my English isn't perfect.

This morning I was talking to my boyfriend about random subjects when he asked me to write down the story of my father, which I did with no hesitation. It wasn't the first time I wrote about him, I was only going to write about a part of his story that was still unwritten. I have no problems talking about it but writing makes me feel much more introspective, to truly feel.

This is part of the story of my father, the part I wrote about this morning:
On my 3rd grade in school I saw my father going away to a different country because for a long time he couldn't find a job in Portugal. We would come visit me and my mum on Christmas or summer. I went to visit him once and I didn't want to come back there because I didn't like the place where he was living. He was a journalist and a writer but he was also studying to be a teacher. One year he decided not to come during summer and only on Christmas. There was sad morning that summer when even the bright day outside wasn't enough to light up my day. I woke up with my mum crying on the phone. I got up and went to see what was happening. "Daddy is dead" she said to me with her face washed in tears. I was so young. At first I couldn't believe it. I sat down on my cough in the living room trying to digest that information. "I will never see my daddy again", that was all I could think about. There I stood while my mum kept crying on the phone. I stood there in silence. I cried my heart out for a while and then it stopped. It was like the world stopped as well. When I stopped crying I decided I had to be strong. My father was shot in a foreign country and apart of the complicated story around it, nothing was done. The guys were found and nothing was done, not even a visit to court. I spoke about this in Philosophy classes, crying. I spoke about this with some friends, crying. I wrote about it, crying. When I was with my family I didn't remember crying because I felt I had to be stronger than all of them. I had a hard time dealing with it but I grew stronger. Yes, I still cry sometimes but I don't feel it's a bad. I cry because I miss him. I received a letter from a friend of his a few years after saying how much he loved me. He used to speak about me all the time. He was proud of me. I was the most important thing in his life.

While I was writing this morning I suddenly started crying. It wasn't a few tears running down my face. I don't remember crying like that for a long, long time. I couldn't speak, I almost couldn't breath and it wouldn't stop. To be honest I don't think I wanted it to stop. I'm not ashamed to cry and in that moment I just wanted to get rid of my tears. Crying can free us from what we carry inside ourselves every day. When I was crying I didn't want to stop. I wanted to cry all I needed to.

When I finally find strength to say something all I could say was "I miss him so much" over and over again. Now that I think about it, that is a statement I didn't say for a long time as well. I say that on my head lots of times but it was so good to say it out loud again.

To me writing is cathartic. A way of meditation. A method I use since I was very young to get rid of all my ghosts as well as to praise all the moments of pure happiness. What happened this morning was positive.

I wrote poems and a short story about my father some time ago and one of my biggest dreams is to get these published, to honor him. I want to be a writer since I was little and now I want it even more; the reason for that is my father. He taught me so much about life even when I couldn't understand the meaning of what he was saying (but now I do). He gave me the love for reading and writing. He is the main reason for this dream of mine.

I don't mind talking about my dad. I don't mind writing about him. I don't mind crying for him. I miss him everyday in my life and I wish I had had more time with him. Life goes on. Like I said lots of times before this is a scar on my soul that will never heal. It made me who I am today. I just hope deeply in my heart that he is proud of who I am, what I achieved and my choices. I love him and even now I can find a way of loving him a little bit more every day.

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