My best friend of over 10 years came over the other night for girl chit chat. The conversation turned into a conversation about my dad...and she told me that I had never told her the story. Other than what she had read or seen on social media...she really had no idea what happened to him/with him.
To be honest...my jaw kind of hit the floor. I couldn't believe that I hadn't talked about it at some point over the years. How crazy...the thing that essentially defines who I am today...and I had never talked about it.
So we got to talking. I explained the stalking, the abuse, the fire...
I pulled out old letters that I haven't looked at in years. The letters from jail that my father sent for over a year before he died.
Something crazy? I forgot how bad they were.
I had truly talked my brain into thinking that the letters were...a little delusional? That maybe I had overreacted to what they said.
But let me tell you something. I was more horrified than I was years ago. I was disgusted by not only the things my 19 year old self was told by her FATHER...but the fact that I had somehow brainwashed myself into thinking that what he said "wasn't that bad."
It was horrible.
Suddenly the feelings rushed back. I started to wonder if maybe I was all the things that he said. Maybe I was the one with all of the problems...maybe I needed professional help like he said so many times in his letters.
But then I read them again.
And again.
And again.
I watched the handwriting change from sentence to sentence. I watched my father's thoughts go from "let me be there for you and help you" to "you are disgusting and worthless." My FATHER.
I watched him threaten suicide in the same sentence of saying he wished I had picked up the phone earlier in the day because he wanted my voice to be the "last thing he ever heard." Yet I was the manipulative one...
Suddenly...I am grateful that I kept all of those letters. I am grateful that I have a reminder that I didn't make up the things that I went through. I'm not crazy. I'm not dramatic.
I was abused.
Point blank.
Period.
I was emotionally ransacked.
I was taught at a very young age that I wasn't enough...
and that I couldn't trust anyone...even my own family.
I was taught to second guess the people I was supposed to be able to trust.
These are things that may never go away. I question everything. I worry at the drop of a hat. I am a control freak when it comes to my family and knowing that they are okay. I am constantly convinced that people are mad at me and don't want me.
The slightest chance of conflict and I am hyper aware of my relationships.
But at the same time...I also continue to stand for those that can't stand for themselves. Because NO woman, wife, girlfriend, DAUGHTER...should ever read things like this from someone who is supposed to love her.
Someone who CLAIMS to love her.
This...
Is not love.
I've wondered why I am the way that I am sometimes. It's hard to deal with a constant anxiety and stress that I don't understand. PTSD is a real bitch.
But this is why.
My father was right about one thing.
"Holding hate is like swallowing fire."
So I refuse to hate. Even if it takes me every day...and even if I have to remind myself on a constant basis that I am not that person he made me out to be. I won't hate him. I will be disappointed and I will never forget the things that happened. But I won't hate him. Because it's only hurting me.
And I refuse to let him be right.
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