Dear Dad,

Wow, another letter within a week? It's not surprising I guess. I've been doing a lot of very heavy thinking.

( Keepin' on keepin' on... )

I’ve just read a book, the major theme of which is separation, loss. The album accompanying it was released two day after you went and I bought it soon after. The album is not only a companion piece to the book but also a tribute to the artist’s father. This impacted me heavily when I was fourteen. I’d been avoiding listening to most of it for years until I finally picked up the book and listened to the album in its entirety afterward. God, I cried. It was a good, cleansing cry. At fourteen the anger and pain was too fresh to fully appreciate it but now I feel like I understand and certainly share the sentiments. Our time as father and daughter was a precious gift and that’s all that really matters, isn't it? One more sappy thing before I sign off.

( I promise this is the last one )

What do you think? I know you’d make fun of me for loving the aforementioned book, ha.

Love,
Katie

P.S. I could practically see you rolling your eyes at the pretentious bullshit being spewed earlier today. You always called me out on the bullshit. Come to think of it, I did the same for you :) Good times.

I still can't get past the anger. I've spent all this time trying to understand the how's and why's. I've pored over books about addiction, talked to addicts, experienced my own minor addiction. I know how hard you tried but that resentful, selfish part of me still says not good enough. I don't know what I expected. I think the thing about it that makes me feel the worst is unknowingly being pulled into that fucked-up world. The inner city, Dell's house, the pool hall, parking lots at night. You invited them into our home. I was a caretaker before I even hit puberty. I was the laundress, I walked to the store for the groceries, I cooked and cleaned as best I could, and for that last year you did nothing but sleep. I don't know if I ever told you this, but before I realized how serious it was I used to joke with mom that your theme was "I'm Only Sleeping".

It was unreal to get that call and I couldn't feel anything for so long. I couldn't cry. I just waited and waited for your ghost to show up and give me closure. It wasn't only that I wanted you to know that I was sorry for the harsh words before you went but I also wanted you to tell me you were sorry for putting me in those unnerving situations. When I went back to the apartment on my own to gather up the last of my things, I just sat on the coffee table and stared at your room down the hallway, where you'd always be just out of sight. I cried a lot then, sitting in that dark, empty apartment and imagining you walking down the hallway on your way to work in your green sweatervest and loafers. I miss you so much but I'm losing my memories slowly but surely and it kills me.

You taught me so much, Dad. Common sense and practicality, music, art, humor. While Mom was hard at work trying to correct my "flaws", you never tried to change me. I know you loved me the way I was. I know you were proud of me and bragged about your daughter to everyone, about how I looked just like you, how famous I was going to be when I grew up to be a writer, about how beautiful I was. After you died, I got so many cards of condolences from people I'd never even heard of telling me these things and it tore me up inside. And I want you to know that in spite of everything, I'm so, so, so proud that you were my father. There's not a single thing I would have changed about you, for better or worse. We had a connection that I still feel to this day.

Even after you died, you still continued to teach me. It's taken a few years to learn the lesson but I understand now. You squandered a remarkable life and brilliant mind on that shit. I don't mean the pot or the acid, but that fucking poison. And ultimately, regardless of circumstances, that was your choice. And I now understand the same is true of me; I can't blame others for my own choices and mistakes. You taught me the art of taking responsibility for one's own actions and that is absolutely vital to survive in this world. I only wish you could have dealt with your own issues instead of turning your back on us. I listen to this when I need to be reminded of both your mistakes and the importance of exercising your own free will.

( You Make Your Own Heaven and Hell Right Here On Earth )

Thank you again for teaching me this. This was a strange letter but I was all weepy when I wrote it, so that may explain it. The most important thing that you need to know is that I miss you so much, Dad, and will always be proud of you.

Love,
Katie

Dear Dad,

( You, me, and the drugs )

Anyway, I really didn’t intend writing you on Father’s Day because you know that I hate doing things the “right” way, but I guess it just turned out like this. I always miss you today - not more than any other day, though, heh.

Love,

Katie

P.S. God, this song reminds me of you.

Inspired by posttoheaven's lovely journal, I've decided to create one of my own. There are so many times when I've said "Dad would really love this band" or "god, I need to tell Otts about this" only to realize that I can't. So all those things I want to say are going here.

I've said it to many of you before, but my father was an amazing human being. Whatever shortcomings or problems he had (and believe me, he had plenty), he made up for it with constant love and support. He was outgoing, anti-establishment, and a true child of the sixties right up until the end. He loved singing and playing the harmonica and was lead vocalist for three bands (who never quite made it out of the school dance circuit...) He took me to blues and bluegrass festivals and got up and danced like a madman. He treated my sister Kirsten, his stepdaughter, like his own child and spoiled the both of us. He would have sooner cut off his right arm than let you down and was a great comfort to have around when you were sick.

Funnily enough, he never liked the Floyd. And Donovan was way too pussy for his tastes (though I recently found a vinyl of Sunshine Superman in his record collection so methinks he might have been fibbing a little.)

Moveover, he was proud of me, he was proud of having me as a daughter. He loved me just the way I was and that meant and still means the world to me. I have no idea how long it's "appropriate" to mourn for a lost loved one it still hurts to think about him. I hope that this will a.) prove theraputic for me and b.) that maybe Dad will see this from somewhere and know that I continue to see traces of him in everyday life. Love you, Otts :)

( Some photos of Dad )