A loss is something that no one ever gets over. We just learn to deal with it. October 29^th marked three years that my father has been gone. That first year was hell but the second year wasn't so bad.

This year, however, was like it had all just happened again for the first time. I hadn't thought about it much because I was dreading the day. But, while sitting in my living room Sunday night, the reminder popped up on my phone, and from deep within my soul a sorrowful wail raked my body.

It's like it all came back as one big nightmare; the weird feeling I had that night before he died, the phone call in the middle of the night and numbness that followed. Instead of it being strung out over a couple of days it all hit me like a ton of bricks in a matter of minutes.

Do we ever really get over losing a loved one? I don't think so. We just bandage our hearts, and it doesn't take much for the overwhelming loss to rip off the bandages and display itself again.

My father and I didn't have the best relationship, and we almost never saw eye to eye on a topic, and I told myself that if he passed away before my mother that it wouldn't affect me that much. I don't think I have ever been more wrong about anything in my life.

Immediately after his passing, I felt so guilty for not being there when he passed away. I underwent months of therapy just to deal with the immense guilt, and I thought that I was over it. That the time for grief had passed and I could move on with my life.

I'm learning now that that is not the case. There is still a giant hole in my heart that has been packed with metaphorical gauze to try to stop the pain. Nothing heals the hurt of losing a loved one; you have to learn to accept the fact that they are gone and won't be returning.

There is no magic pill or antidote; you just have to take it one day at a time. Like a breakup, when you're really in love, and it hurts so bad you could die.

I tried drowning my sorrows in alcohol, but that didn't fix it. I was numb for a bit, and then the thoughts and memories would come flooding back, and then the panic attacks would happen, and I would be miserable.

I had nightmares, almost nightly after he died for about six months. Each one was more terrible than the next. Every dream had the same setup though. My father and I would be somewhere together, something terrible would happen, and he would be close to death. All my attempts to rescue or help my father would fail, and he would die in my dream right in front of me.

I was deep in my grief, and the nightmares would keep me from sleeping. I would have panic attacks almost daily until I decided to put myself in therapy. That's where I learned to deal with the grief and understand that it will always be a part of who I am.

My father wasn't the best man on the planet; there was nothing exceptional about him except the fact that he was MY father. We may have disagreed a lot and said things to each other that weren't so nice, but I loved him more than I thought I did. Losing him was the worse pain I've ever dealt with.

Not a day goes by that I don't miss you, Dad.