I haven't been around in awhile, and I doubt anyone will read this, but my father died today.

He had been doing so well for a month with his drinking, and he simply drank too much, and forgot how much of his medication he had took. The irony; my grandparents, his parents, showed up at the trailer park to take him to Oregon and help him. My grandparents found their son, dead. He had fallen down the steps inside, and died.

We got the call at four. And I left the house without throwing shoes on. They had the trailer taped off, and they wouldn't let me see him, a good move, but at the time. I wanted to bust the police's face in.

People die, that's life. But he was supposed to get better. We were right down the street, for fucks sake. RIGHT. THERE. He could have called. He could have told us, and we could have been there in five minutes.

But he didn't.

And he's gone.

I don't know what to do, or say. It feels like it's all a dream, and there are moments when I feel like I'm going to kick it. We tried so goddamn hard to help him.

He didn't want to help himself, though.

And now I don't have a father.

--

All drama aside, everything seems a bit more real today than what it did yesterday. My mom insists on keeping my dads wallet and phone with her, so I am prone to crying like a little bitch, even thought I don't want to. Sarah and I haven't slept yet today. We tried our best, but upon talking to each other, figured that we can think of nothing but the image our subconscious is giving us.

To try and deal with the guilt/hurt/that bullshit, my sister and I went out and got our first tattoos. Shamrocks, for my dad. He had one on his hand, and was supposed to be there with me when I got my first.. And after we got home, Sarah and I apparently had the same thought at the same time, because we met in the hallway. "Dude, let's go get a fucking tattoo."

My uncle on my mothers side knows a guy, so we got a good deal. Whoever said tattoos hurt, were fucking bitches. It burned, but that was about it. I had braced myself for severe pain ,and upon the first minute, looked over all '..Is that it'.

I'm having trouble with the 'what ifs', and trying to keep from blaming myself, but that's not going so well. Nothing like this smooths over in a day, but I wish it did.

I just want to sleep >_<


--

I no longer feel guilty on the 'I could have stopped this if I were more careful', scale, but a whole new load of guilt has settled in on the 'I should have seen the signs', scale.

My mother and grandmother were making an attempt to clean out the trailer this evening when my grandmother found his suicide note. He had written in the first page, and turned it over. It was lying where his body had been, and reading it, it looks as if he had simply slipped into an unconscious state before he could finish the rest. I almost wished he had.

To sum it up, he felt that killing himself would stop mine, my sisters, and my mothers suffering. He stated that he was ashamed of himself, and could not face the shit he had done. My grandmother (on my mothers side), stated that he did an honorable thing. How.

How is ending the hurt, but creating a whole new one honorable?

Other than my sister not taking the entire thing well, my grandmother had to point out that what looked like a water splash on the paper, was probably his vomit, from when he lie dying.

That ruined me.

It just fucking ruined me.