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My relationship with my father was a constant battle between love and loathing: I was the true meaning of the phrase "Daddy’s Girl" and worshipped the ground he walked on. I would always go to him for advice and help and trusted him more than anyone. Yet he was an aggressive alcoholic and I hated him for what he had done to our family. I have an older sister and a twin brother, and I felt that his drinking had stifled our enjoyment of childhood. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I wished him dead. Until one day, after our normal family dinner, he announced he had cancer and would die within six months. I cried for two days solid and blamed myself for tempting fate.

Six weeks later I was called from lessons and sent to see my dad for the last time. Watching such a strong, fiery man become so helpless and feeble was heartbreaking. I felt powerless. Frustrated.

The hardest part was the confusion I felt afterwards: part of me was glad he was gone, and I hated myself for it. I was devastated, but I felt I had to play the part of this pitiful, fatherless child who had lost everything, just to satisfy the people around me.

A lot of the adults around me began to treat me differently than they had before: everything they said seemed more scripted and it always contained a note of sympathy, which really bugged me. I’ve always been an enthusiastic pupil and would happily join in with discussions or group work, but suddenly teachers seemed to shy away from involving me as if somehow what was happening to me had lessened my abilities, or limited my mind. My one release was my group of friends: they understood I was still the same old Sophie.

A year on and I’ve come through a part of my life which has helped me grow into a young adult and understand myself better. And I’ve finally stopped feeling guilty about my emotions.

Thinking about my dad no longer confuses me: after talking to people about it, I now know that love and hate are essential in every strong bond.