Letter to a bastard.

My therapist and I talked last week about me writing a letter to my father telling him all the things that I think he should be held accountable for, and I decided that writing here (in the privacy of my public blog) would be good for me.  I won’t be publishing this one on Facebook, so thanks if you end up reading this.

I need you to know that I never felt safe with you. From what Mom has told me in the past, I was a daddy’s girl for a little while. Amazing how quickly that changed, huh? My first memory is you traumatizing my mother. You never acknowledged that you scared us. Our household revolved around what kind of mood you were in and if you were going to find one of us to single out and pick on. Who were you going to be angry at today? Our house was too small for me to hide anywhere, but I still managed to avoid you. Of course, it meant not watching any t.v. shows that I wanted to, not having many friends over unless we were outside, going stir crazy in my tiny box of a room, and becoming more and more resentful toward you and the fact that I couldn’t get away from you and that fucked up house.

You made me feel disgusting and ashamed of my body. Why in the world did you think telling a pre-teen that she has “nice curves” was a good idea? I know you had no conscious knowledge of what you were doing, but I also know that there is supposed to be a thing in your head that says “STOP” when dealing with young girls if you are a grown-ass man. You never made me feel precious and loved. I felt afraid of your gaze and learned to despise my body because it made you look at me the way you did. When I was in high school, I was not comfortable with the way you looked at my friends and classmates, either. When I became an adult and you would tell your “funny stories” about how you had made inappropriate sexual comments or sexualized my friends and our neighbors, I was ashamed. I felt re-traumatized and didn’t even realize that feeling for what it was. I just knew at the time that it made me sick.

I guess you thought that we didn’t know how much you yelled at and then subtly harassed Mom.  I wished you would hit one of us so that we could call the police. I prayed that she would leave you for years. You owed her an apology every day.

You told me what a bitch I can be. I never told you what a piece of shit you were, and I regret it still. You told me how bad I was. You told me that Greg was better at everything than me. You told me that I should do more around the house and how I never helped my mom (even though neither you nor Greg lifted a fucking finger to make her life any easier). You never once told me how GOOD I was at things, and I was and am exceptionally good at a lot of things. You criticized me for things that you knew nothing about and made me doubt my own factual knowledge on different subjects. When I came back from university, and from France, you tried to tell me how I was wrong about the things I had studied, French culture, everything. You didn’t know jack shit about anything.

You didn’t have high hopes for my future.

You were nice to everyone except us, at home.

You lied and made everything sound completely different to your sisters and your parents.

I still despise you and have not completely forgiven everything, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget.

 

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About Sally

It's all about me. ALL OF IT. ABOUT ME.
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