Cigarette smoke tickles my lungs as I inhale the closest thing I ever got from you.
I don’t smoke but you did most of your life.
Truthfully, I smoked often after your death;
Feeling though if this was a way to feel your presence.  
Though it only irritates my lungs.
One night I drank 3 bottles of wine;
I don’t drink.
I burnt a hole in my couch singing “before you go”; hadn’t lit up anything other than marijuana since then.
Smoking wouldn’t bring my father back.
Wouldn’t repair the trauma he caused during my youth.  
31 years old doesn’t prepare you for the death of your father.
The three months you gained weight
Didn’t leave your bed
Pushed many of your friends away because rejection sensitivity.
And cried so hard you nearly threw up
3 months of worsening binge eating where you felt so full you couldn’t breathe
Severe depression
And oddly enough suicide ideation.
Misplaced guilt from abuse that wasn’t your fault.
Sweat soaked sheets from chaotically descriptive  nightmares
Unrelenting dissociation.
Even longer tangling with delicious self hatred, words your father used when he would belittle your body while you developed an eating disorder at his hand.
My thighs are getting bigger
-insert self loathing here-
I won’t repeat those abusive words;
As I’m trying to heal.
5 nights shy of 1 year.
I can say I finally like myself.
The other side of shutdown reared it’s caressing warmth;
The chrysalis of self discovery erupting like a volcanic convocation.
Complex post traumatic stress disorder.
I wear this diagnosis like a badge, proof of my experiences.
I miss you.
Though I am not unhappy you’re gone.