The day my dad died was one of the worst days of my life. It wasn’t even unexpected, as he’d suffered from heart disease and a brain bleed leading up to the fateful day. But it still cut me like a knife. I saw him dead on the floor, and I heard his body bag brush against the wall as the funeral directors carried him out.

You can’t prepare for an event like that.

For two years after, I struggled to do anything without him coming into my mind. People say they find comfort in the pleasant memories, but for me, they were torture. Each was a kick in the gut reminder of what I’d lost.

As time went on, the rose-tinted glasses of grief faded, and I began to see my dad in a more accurate light — both good and bad. This helped me cope with my grief, but it was a jarring experience to realize I still had so much to process. Unfinished business that can never be rectified.

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The good times.

In most cases, when someone dies, their loved ones lionize them as the greatest, funniest, most intelligent person that ever existed. Only in the most extreme circumstances does anyone speak ill of the dead.

My dad was a good person. When I was a child, he used to write stories for me and draw the most amazing illustrations to go with them. Every Sunday, I’d jump onto his bed, and he’d read me the latest installment of magic and mystery, all taking place in a fantasy forest called “Pickety Wood.”

One Christmas, he created a real-life Pickety Wood model. He bought a load of small metal toys and painted them, turning them into the characters from our stories. It was a masterpiece and the best present I ever had. I had an active imagination and every day I came up with stories and re-enacted them in my very own forest.

As I grew older and replaced imagination with computer games, we spent hours playing Super Mario Kart. I always used to beat him, and I used to collect banana skins and wait for him to get close. Then I’d drop the skin, and he’d skid off the road, much to my amusement.

We used to go on vacation to Scotland. We always stayed in remote cottages for two weeks. I’d pack a football, a cricket set, a frisbee, and a badminton set. My dad and I would spend the whole time playing in the garden and going on walks.

He was always scared of cold water, so my mum, girlfriend, and I used to get in the nearby stream and make fun of him. He’d get as far as his feet, and then we would splash him until he ran away screaming.

We’d also play by kicking the ball to each other. The rule was you had to kick it from where it landed. I took advantage of this rule by kicking the ball into steams, up hills, or over several fences. He’d have to go where I kicked it and would do the same. We ended up in ridiculous places trying to drop-kick the ball over hills.

He was my best friend during those times, and these memories crushed me. For years, instead of seeing Scotland as a place of so many wonderful childhood memories, it was my worst place on earth. I couldn’t have imagined returning.

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The other side of the coin.

There was another side to my relationship with my dad. I didn’t acknowledge this side for two years, but it became an obsession.

Some of the worst arguments of my life have been with my dad.

My dad triggered the first PTSD flashback I ever had.

During my school years, I was bullied incessantly. My peers attacked me physically, but the greatest damage was psychological. They told me daily no one loved me and I should end my life. They called me ugly, fat, and disgusting. They mocked everything from my hair to my clothes.

Most nights, I’d come home and rage with frustration. Most of the frustration came because I never dared to stand up for myself. I wished I could unleash the fury but always turned it inward.

My dad would react with rage of his own. He’d ask me why I didn’t defend myself — what was wrong with me? He said he’d take me to boxing classes, change my appearance, and cut my hair.

I grew to dread telling him, so I tried keeping it to myself. Yet, the pressure and misery were unbearable, and I needed to tell someone. As I had no friends, I’d confide in my mum. I’d always ask her not to tell my dad so I could be spared the angry lecture, yet she’d tell him every time.

Many times, being at home was as stressful as being at school. No one had any answers that felt realistic to me. How could I take up boxing when I was terrified of violence?

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After a long struggle, I turned my life around and took up boxing and Karate. I went on to get my black belt and boxed in front of an audience. My fellow students and teachers commended me on my toughness.

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If only they knew my past.

You’d think my dad would’ve been happy. I’d done the exact thing he wanted and excelled at it.

You’d be wrong.

If I ever told my dad about a physical achievement, such as getting a new belt in Karate, he’d pick holes. His favorite one was explaining how none of this meant I was tough because he knew hard men, and I wasn’t one of them.

For years, this paradox has confused me. He told me to toughen up but scorned every attempt. Even when I became a police officer because I was obsessed with bravery (thanks to him), he’d tell me the uniform gave me an advantage. I still couldn’t call myself tough.

What did he want from me? He isn’t here anymore to ask, and I’ll forever wonder.

Partly due to never feeling “tough” enough, I joined the police to prove myself brave. I certainly did that, but I also ended up with post-traumatic stress disorder. I was medically retired and told I was 100% disabled for life at 27.

As you can imagine, my dad reacted with frustration. One day, I was crying about a double suicide I’d attended. I’d been crying every day for months, and the incident was a critical factor in my PTSD. This angered my dad, and he told me he didn’t give a f*** about the victims, and neither should I.

The callousness and shock of his statement triggered my first-ever flashback. I began reliving the event as if it were happening now. I curled into a ball, sobbing and sweating for around 15 minutes. At the end of the flashback, I was drained of energy. I imagine it’s like emerging from a seizure.

I went on to have many more flashbacks, but it remains the truth that dad caused my first. I’ve never been able to forgive his hateful comment.

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Trying to reconcile both parts of the man.

For a while, after grieving the best of him, I could only dwell on the worst. Now, I’m trying to reconcile both sides of my dad.

How did such a kind, gentle, and loving man who wrote me those stories and made me the focal point of his life also find such anger and ignorance inside himself?

How did the man who would give a stranger the shirt off his back tell me he didn’t care about two teenagers who took their own lives?

Why did he criticize me for being soft yet resent my attempts to toughen up and follow his advice?

I never asked him, and now I’ve lost the chance.

My dad wasn’t stupid, so I can’t cite ignorance as a reason. But maybe the answer is more straightforward.

Looking back at my life, I’ve also done very good and bad things. Someday, someone might wrestle with their own memories to explain my behavior.

I’ve learned that people are imperfect, and death doesn’t change that. My dad was a wonderful, kind man. But he was also impulsive, thoughtless in his words, and easily frustrated — a mix of good and bad.

It’s as simple and complicated as that.

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