I have taken the time to sit and think

With my mind completely numbed by sleep,

Oh how I want sleep.

 

I was suggested to, by a friend, sit and write out whatever I may. My mind is a jumbled mess with all the thoughts, past, present, future all torn and thrown asunder in it. Why is it she married him, when he finds nothing more satisfying, than the sound of his loud boisterous voice ridiculing the very foundation of this family, and me?

 

And what of my father, the man who chose alcohol over his family and life. His world is torn upside down and inside out, his apologies lie on deaf ears now. He continuously tried to make things right, when I have for over 19 years dealt with his bullshit, given up on him.

 

I wept the day he broke my life. I wept over the lost photos, memories, the things I could never re-create. My heart, it broke, twice over. This was my daddy, this was my father, and he was supposed to love me unconditionally. Wasn’t he? There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of him, worry for him. Why is he killing himself slowly, why? Again, I weep, my daddy is dying a slow and painful death, and because I’m bitter for his treatment, I will let him do it alone. I feel selfish and unkind. In this moment, I feel like stone, untouched by any of the elements because I am hardened and nowhere near soft on the inside for him.

 

Wait, let me back up. My daddy left me fatherless at the age of three. It was a Christmas morning, right before my parent’s divorce, and he picked up the tree and hurtled it outside reminding me that there’d be no Christmas. I can hear him, the anger in his voice, as I write this. It scares me, that I can remember that far back.

 

They divorced, and we fast forward a bit, visitations are set in. Every other weekend. However, for a year, a year straight he failed to see me, or come to get me. I remember asking my mother, “Momma…why doesn’t daddy love me anymore?” and the hurt I felt.

 

My daddy. My father. My Eddie-Joe. Because that’s who he is now, Eddie. Joe. A sperm donator. Continuing a few more years, I am allowed to have friends over, I am capable of being aware of my surroundings, and what I used to think harmless, I find out is terrifying. My father is drunk one night, he rambles aimlessly about my mother using “our” dial up at his place, with the number and password Triton had given “us” (my father and I.) I argued, to no avail of course, and wound up with CDs being thrown at my face, but missing.

 

When they hit the way, the shattered like glass. I suddenly was very scared and alert of my surroundings. Ten o’clock at night, and I was on the phone with my mother trying to get her to take me home. Dad didn’t want to have any of that, and he lied, told her I was just whining because I didn’t want to “clean my room.”

 

I could go on and on with the numerous things he’s done that’s slowly led up to the breaking point. The day I was in contact with Ann for the first time in a while, and he was drunk. He called to make me come back to make dinner for him, ten minutes of me being gone, and he couldn’t stand it. I hung up, not wishing to bother with him. He called eight more times, each message left in slurred words with the common sentences of, “You stuck up stupid bitch.” Or, “you’re just like your mother, you stupid bitch!” and in the end, he had torn up the title to my car, broken my cell phone completely, emptied my purses and pockets of my money, broke numerous CDs, pissed on my clothes, and ripped up my photos.

 

My daddy fucked me. In a very emotionally and mentally destructive way.

 

I can’t remember the last time I cried over him and how he did me so wrong, but after reliving the memories, and being haunted, the tears are easier to come by. I can easily let things go, now, and forget the man I was once willing to be there for. My father.

 

But you see, what people don’t understand. What most people, who hardly know him, would say in justification for this man, is that he’s my dad no matter what, and I should love him. The sad thing is, I do love him. The even worse part is, it hurts like hell to love my father, because he is no longer the man I used to play laser tag with, or go to movies with. He is no longer a father figure, I have no father figure. I have my mother, and myself. I do not look up to any one man, for fear of getting hurt. In a number of ways.

 

Maybe this ties in with my numerous insecurities of being left alone. I am deftly afraid of being alone in my life, and hurting because of it. Hurting because my loved ones walk away from me. The very idea bores into my soul, my core, my heart, and turns like a knife driven just deep enough. It aches.

 

Don’t leave me alone.

Don’t leave me.

Don’t leave.

Don’t.