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My story begins on a summer evening in 1989. I was seven years old at the time. I had just come in from playing with my friends in the garden and was wondering why I hadn’t been called in for my dinner. I walked into the living room. In the corner beside the telephone sat my mother, tears in her eyes. I stood still, almost glued to the spot I occupied. She had an expression on her face I had never seen before. I was frightened. She normally had an expression of happiness, but now I could only see fear, shock and sorrow.
After a long pause my mother barely managed to say, “Sit down, I have something to tell you” I immediately knew it was not something good. To this day, what she said next keeps ringing in my ears. “It’s your father, h-he’s gone.” Gone where? I thought, and then I said it as if not from my own mouth. “He’s gone to a nice place, and he will be happy there. A place called heaven.” I couldn’t believe it. My Dad, just gone. No goodbye. No hug. No kiss. Just gone. I asked how. How come he won’t be back? “He was hit by a car.” My reaction was to lock myself in my room and I played my Atari games day and night until the funeral. It was compulsive, but it made me feel in control.
My father’s funeral was three days later at eleven o’clock on a Friday morning. I had never been at a funeral before. I will never forget that summer’s week in 1989. A week when my old life finished and my new life began. Everything about me changed. I hardly ever spoke, I wouldn’t get in a car, and I had never known myself to feel so empty. I clung onto my games like they were my life source, my reason for being. My Dad took a part of me with him, a part that was my whole personality.
But in time I realised I had found my way of coping. That playing games gave me an outlet to take out my anger and grief, in my own time. My mind was overflowing all the time with thoughts of my Dad, and I wasn’t really trying to ignore them, I was dealing with them through games rather than words. I thought back to what I was playing at the time, and realised that I had a game for each emotion, when I felt anger I raced cars, when I wanted to cry I played Pacman, meaningless now, yet at the time it obviously meant something.
When my father died, a few people said to me that they knew how I was feeling, what I was going through and that playing computer games wouldn’t help me. They couldn’t see that it was my way of coping. I know they were only trying to help, but everyone grieves and feels the loss in a different way. I explored each feeling and worked out my pain in front of the T.V. screen. I lost someone I loved and cared about that July day and it hurt, it hurt a lot. I now had a gap to fill in my heart where my father’s love had been. The games took that place at first but gradually I found the replacement to fill in that gap, the knowing that I was loved and that my father knew I loved him, and the memories of our short time together.
Computer games gave me a focal point when I needed it most and even now over 13 years later when I need to work something out I find myself reaching for the controller of my PS2. I kept my Atari long after it stopped working to remind myself what got me through the toughest time in my life, and I’m glad my Atari was there to keep me on track when I probably otherwise wouldn’t have coped.
After a long pause my mother barely managed to say, “Sit down, I have something to tell you” I immediately knew it was not something good. To this day, what she said next keeps ringing in my ears. “It’s your father, h-he’s gone.” Gone where? I thought, and then I said it as if not from my own mouth. “He’s gone to a nice place, and he will be happy there. A place called heaven.” I couldn’t believe it. My Dad, just gone. No goodbye. No hug. No kiss. Just gone. I asked how. How come he won’t be back? “He was hit by a car.” My reaction was to lock myself in my room and I played my Atari games day and night until the funeral. It was compulsive, but it made me feel in control.
My father’s funeral was three days later at eleven o’clock on a Friday morning. I had never been at a funeral before. I will never forget that summer’s week in 1989. A week when my old life finished and my new life began. Everything about me changed. I hardly ever spoke, I wouldn’t get in a car, and I had never known myself to feel so empty. I clung onto my games like they were my life source, my reason for being. My Dad took a part of me with him, a part that was my whole personality.
But in time I realised I had found my way of coping. That playing games gave me an outlet to take out my anger and grief, in my own time. My mind was overflowing all the time with thoughts of my Dad, and I wasn’t really trying to ignore them, I was dealing with them through games rather than words. I thought back to what I was playing at the time, and realised that I had a game for each emotion, when I felt anger I raced cars, when I wanted to cry I played Pacman, meaningless now, yet at the time it obviously meant something.
When my father died, a few people said to me that they knew how I was feeling, what I was going through and that playing computer games wouldn’t help me. They couldn’t see that it was my way of coping. I know they were only trying to help, but everyone grieves and feels the loss in a different way. I explored each feeling and worked out my pain in front of the T.V. screen. I lost someone I loved and cared about that July day and it hurt, it hurt a lot. I now had a gap to fill in my heart where my father’s love had been. The games took that place at first but gradually I found the replacement to fill in that gap, the knowing that I was loved and that my father knew I loved him, and the memories of our short time together.
Computer games gave me a focal point when I needed it most and even now over 13 years later when I need to work something out I find myself reaching for the controller of my PS2. I kept my Atari long after it stopped working to remind myself what got me through the toughest time in my life, and I’m glad my Atari was there to keep me on track when I probably otherwise wouldn’t have coped.
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My story begins on a summer evening in 1989. I was seven years old at the time. I had just come in from playing with my friends in the garden and was wondering why I hadn’t been called in for my dinner. I walked into the living room. In the corner beside the telephone sat my mother, tears in her eyes. I stood still, almost glued to the spot I occupied. She had an expression on her face I had never seen before. I was frightened. She normally had an expression of happiness, but now I could only see fear, shock and sorrow.
After a long pause my mother barely managed to say, “Sit down, I have something to tell you” I immediately knew it was not something good. To this day, what she said next keeps ringing in my ears. “It’s your father, h-he’s gone.” Gone where? I thought, and then I said it as if not from my own mouth. “He’s gone to a nice place, and he will be happy there. A place called heaven.” I couldn’t believe it. My Dad, just gone. No goodbye. No hug. No kiss. Just gone. I asked how. How come he won’t be back? “He was hit by a car.” My reaction was to lock myself in my room and I played my Atari games day and night until the funeral. It was compulsive, but it made me feel in control.
My father’s funeral was three days later at eleven o’clock on a Friday morning. I had never been at a funeral before. I will never forget that summer’s week in 1989. A week when my old life finished and my new life began. Everything about me changed. I hardly ever spoke, I wouldn’t get in a car, and I had never known myself to feel so empty. I clung onto my games like they were my life source, my reason for being. My Dad took a part of me with him, a part that was my whole personality.
But in time I realised I had found my way of coping. That playing games gave me an outlet to take out my anger and grief, in my own time. My mind was overflowing all the time with thoughts of my Dad, and I wasn’t really trying to ignore them, I was dealing with them through games rather than words. I thought back to what I was playing at the time, and realised that I had a game for each emotion, when I felt anger I raced cars, when I wanted to cry I played Pacman, meaningless now, yet at the time it obviously meant something.
When my father died, a few people said to me that they knew how I was feeling, what I was going through and that playing computer games wouldn’t help me. They couldn’t see that it was my way of coping. I know they were only trying to help, but everyone grieves and feels the loss in a different way. I explored each feeling and worked out my pain in front of the T.V. screen. I lost someone I loved and cared about that July day and it hurt, it hurt a lot. I now had a gap to fill in my heart where my father’s love had been. The games took that place at first but gradually I found the replacement to fill in that gap, the knowing that I was loved and that my father knew I loved him, and the memories of our short time together.
Computer games gave me a focal point when I needed it most and even now over 13 years later when I need to work something out I find myself reaching for the controller of my PS2. I kept my Atari long after it stopped working to remind myself what got me through the toughest time in my life, and I’m glad my Atari was there to keep me on track when I probably otherwise wouldn’t have coped.
After a long pause my mother barely managed to say, “Sit down, I have something to tell you” I immediately knew it was not something good. To this day, what she said next keeps ringing in my ears. “It’s your father, h-he’s gone.” Gone where? I thought, and then I said it as if not from my own mouth. “He’s gone to a nice place, and he will be happy there. A place called heaven.” I couldn’t believe it. My Dad, just gone. No goodbye. No hug. No kiss. Just gone. I asked how. How come he won’t be back? “He was hit by a car.” My reaction was to lock myself in my room and I played my Atari games day and night until the funeral. It was compulsive, but it made me feel in control.
My father’s funeral was three days later at eleven o’clock on a Friday morning. I had never been at a funeral before. I will never forget that summer’s week in 1989. A week when my old life finished and my new life began. Everything about me changed. I hardly ever spoke, I wouldn’t get in a car, and I had never known myself to feel so empty. I clung onto my games like they were my life source, my reason for being. My Dad took a part of me with him, a part that was my whole personality.
But in time I realised I had found my way of coping. That playing games gave me an outlet to take out my anger and grief, in my own time. My mind was overflowing all the time with thoughts of my Dad, and I wasn’t really trying to ignore them, I was dealing with them through games rather than words. I thought back to what I was playing at the time, and realised that I had a game for each emotion, when I felt anger I raced cars, when I wanted to cry I played Pacman, meaningless now, yet at the time it obviously meant something.
When my father died, a few people said to me that they knew how I was feeling, what I was going through and that playing computer games wouldn’t help me. They couldn’t see that it was my way of coping. I know they were only trying to help, but everyone grieves and feels the loss in a different way. I explored each feeling and worked out my pain in front of the T.V. screen. I lost someone I loved and cared about that July day and it hurt, it hurt a lot. I now had a gap to fill in my heart where my father’s love had been. The games took that place at first but gradually I found the replacement to fill in that gap, the knowing that I was loved and that my father knew I loved him, and the memories of our short time together.
Computer games gave me a focal point when I needed it most and even now over 13 years later when I need to work something out I find myself reaching for the controller of my PS2. I kept my Atari long after it stopped working to remind myself what got me through the toughest time in my life, and I’m glad my Atari was there to keep me on track when I probably otherwise wouldn’t have coped.