I have hardly been able to function today. Visions, images, memories of my father flood my mind and I can’t escape them. I can’t escape them. They make me want to die, to crawl out of my skin and scratch my way out of this world just to escape the pain. I smoke a cigar at the end of the night sometimes to connect to the girl I was at 18, the girl who was almost free. I know it’s not wise, I know this, but it feels like I reach into the past through the smoke and teach myself to how to breathe. One toxic breath at a time. Hatred in, hatred out. In, out, in, out, in, out. Defiance. In, out, in, out, in, out. Hatred is a hell of a survival tool.
My father murdered me through his pornography addiction.
He hated me for turning into a woman, and he took this hatred out on me by shaming me every day, berating me, belittling me until I was nothing. Dissecting me. Telling me how silly I was, how little he thought of me, how uninterested he was in my opinions or the opinions of my “silly little friends”. Telling me I would fear him. Fear reigned supreme in our house. Fear of talking, existing, speaking too much. I was constantly ashamed. Constantly ashamed of my body because of the way that he would look at me. Every day, every time I walked through a room he would make it a point to stop what he was doing and look at me like I was the most disgusting thing he had ever seen, and then he would slowly go from head to toe, not say a word, except “hmph”, and then go back to reading. But he wasn’t reading was he? No, he was not. He was busy being disgusted by his teenage daughter while he watched girls violate themselves in painful ways on camera. If I could go back in time I would smash his computers against the walls until they shattered into broken pieces and parts, throw all his books on the floor, rip the pages out, and scream at him until my lungs were bleeding. That girl deserved a voice. Sometimes he didn’t talk to me for days. I never knew why. I didn’t know why I was so disgusting to him. Other times he would look at me and dissect my body, and tell me where I was developing like that was a good thing. Was I good? Was I bad? Was I an object? As an object was I an inherently bad object? He gave me this hatred, this burning hatred of women that I don’t think he knew he had, and he put it on my shoulders. He made it my pain, my suffering, my burden to carry. What a horrible thing to do. I’ve been asking since 2019, setting fire to my past and spewing venom from the places that make me scream in pain, like a never ending burning death. I want an answer, but no answer comes. Just more deafening silence from the man who has ruined my life in more ways than he can ever imagine. Yeah, I know some family that have guilted me about having kids and not bringing them around my parents. I think I’ll stick around home again this year.