My father died in March. He had dementia, and quite possibly Covid-19 (cases in care homes were unrecorded at this point).

I hadn’t seen him since last summer. He obviously didn’t know who I was then, but told me I had a beautiful face whilst I fed him a carton of apple juice. He said it was the best juice he’d ever tasted, and that a horse had visited him just before I did.

The funeral took place in lockdown. Open burial, six people around the grave. A Jehovah’s witness ‘elder’ led the brief service. The hymn lyrics depicted a sense of flying through the sky – overtly positive and somewhat bizarre.

I wrote Dad a letter (we were estranged after he became a Jehovah’s witness) and swiftly dropped it into the open grave before I said goodbye. The letter was my attempt to forgive him for being a wife and child beating patriarch. He was a terrible father, but still a human being with thoughts and feelings.

I walked away feeling complete closure coupled with relief.

The most challenging thing about Dad’s death was the timing: lockdown. Just when I needed it most, access to the most important thing in my life – friends – was forbidden.

I needed a hug.
I craved human contact.

A good friend sent me a surprise cash gift so I could get therapy. Immense, unprompted kindness that touched my heart.

The combination of getting to grips with a significant loss while isolating with only my thoughts for company triggered a sequence of introspection.

I bought a bottle of gin and pored over old family photographs into the early hours. I’ve got the whole collection – even from the years before I was born. There are snapshots from when they were a family of four, before me, when I assume my parents were at their happiest.

Dad’s death coincided with the break-down of my relationship. We were engaged. He had a beautiful border terrier who brought me more joy than anything else has of late. The split was brutal, elongated. I’m fiercely loyal and hate change – both of these traits prohibit my ability to move forward.

I find music cathartic in times of strife.

People ain’t no good by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.Cold blooded old times by Smog.Spiralling by Antony and the Johnsons.

The recent break-up led me to think about a past break-up with my partner of eighteen years. I belong to Gen X and therefore I’m no internet native. It feels ironic then that a smartphone was the instigator and enabler of that break-up. The menu of digital possibilities led me to an affair. I looked, sampled, and paid the price.

During the late nights with only family photographs for company, my brain mulled over the connection between my familial relationships from childhood, and my romantic relationships as an adult. I recognise my behaviour as belonging to someone with low self-esteem and little confidence. But is there a narrative thread between the two? Was it my unplanned arrival into the world that led to the harmony in the photos vanishing? I didn’t find a single photograph of us as a family of five. Did my birth lead to my parents divorce? When I was 11, Dad told me I was a mistake.

I’ve wondered if the way I’ve felt about myself is surprising considering these things.

And the fact I grew up in a small working class mining town riddled with homophobia and toxic masculinity.

The end of any year is a reflective time but never more so than this year. Right now, I’m attempting to imagine a future close to water with a couple of scruffy dogs and a wood burner.

Simplicity.