late nights and loud fights
it's all just a blur

5:29 p.m. | 2005-05-26
I Think That Scares You

And in nineteen years of living I suppose I never let myself realize the fact that I don't want him to say sorry and that I don't really want any sort of relationship with him.

I've detailed some of the things my father did to me as a child (which, I suppose fortunately can never be compared to other people's misfortunes). But a little abuse is still enough. There were still times he'd forget to pick me up from kindergarten because he was too far into writing his dissertation. There's smaller events and larger events and they still happen today.

I'm an attention whore because my father really never gave it to me. I'm starting to note, more and more, how much my childhood differed from most. I loved climbing trees and scraping knees and all things boy-esque but never once have I say gone fishing with my father, or even sat down and colored with him.

The only way I can find to explain this to anyone else is to say that I am the kind of person who will give people second, third, and even ninth chances. Gabe hurts me every single time I'm with him, that's say 3 times a month, multiply that by 12 months a year...and I think you get my point. I still take him back. My father though?

I've always been so bitter and hurt by the things he's done I've never even wanted him to apologize or tell me he's sorry. He's hurt me so many times that I've just given up on him. And the second I thought he'd gotten better and maybe realized what he did...he's changed back. He'll still drop the world for anyone but me. And even though he's not standing in front of me telling me I'm not important imagine what it feels like to be ignored for 19 years without explanation.

I know any psychologist would tell me I need to confront what he did to me and I need to forgive him because he never meant to do it.

But intentions are bull shit.

I don't care whether or not he meant to stick that knife in there and twist -- he still did it. And worse? He did it over and over and over again. I don't care if it's healthy for me to resolve this because I'm not sure I want to believe society's definition of "healthy." Because I'm hoping that by being so upset with him I will never ever do any of the shit to my kids that he did to me.

And I know this sounds terrible and disgusting but I don't want him to walk me down the aisle. I don't even want him to be there. I don't want my children to know very much about their grandfather and if he wasn't my only way out then I'd never talk to him again. His, and his finger alone, rests on that college fund which is the only way I'm ever going to be able to get out of here.

Gabe asked me once, as I had just burst into tears, why I lived with my mother if she was so unbearable. And I realized that it was because while she may have been unbearable, she wasn't mean. I thought about all of the nights I spent in my father's house cowering in my room just wishing he'd love me. And I didn't know why.

Boy do I have problems.

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