Going back to find my grief

 All my life, I have been aware of the difference between my physical and academic abilities. I was a bright young man but couldn’t read out loud, (Today I would be diagnosed with dyslexia.) So, I was shamed and rebuked as I went through the school system. When it came to sports, I was always gifted and confident, no one could criticize my abilities. Over the years this situation distorted how I viewed myself and people’s expectations of me, so I am now trying to make sense of it. My counsellor during our last session, asked me if other people had appreciated my physical abilities as much as I had. Suddenly I became very emotional and started talking about my dad. He certainly admired my talents and supported me in any way he could and, more than my brothers, we had an affinity that I’m only realising was very special. Unlike my brothers who were apart from my dad during the war years, he was a constant in my life. He made my breakfast every morning since my mum was at work. He talked about what was important to him and what was good about life which was something I readily accepted. I suppose that in my early days, he was my hero but that changed as my ambitions and successes seemed to dwarf his own. I loved him but I was realistic about the man he was. We stayed close over the years and after years of illness he decided his respiratory troubles were just too much to bear, and he said to me, 'Don’t let them take me into hospital again.’ He entrusted his life to me, and I sat with him until he passed. After his death, I didn’t grieve for him, as I got on with my busy life. He was just an ordinary man who had lived the best life he could. He couldn’t solve my reading problems and for years I resented that, but he was my dad. Today I must honour his memory and remind myself of what he did for me. I owe him the grief I never showed. I owe him my tears.