are you so incompetent you can't even tell your daughter how to heat a pre-cooked pizza?
I've been putting off this one, just because I didn't have time. Rather, I didn't feel like dedicating the time. Like explaining myself once again.
So many of us are labeled this way, huh?
So many of us daughters. So many of us first-borns.
And I hate this phrase. Because it's one to blow us off. When we're rebellious, when we distrust, when we're angry.
This trauma is so normalized, it's a cliche.
"What did your dad do to you? It can't be that bad."
You're right. It's not that bad.
Moreso, I suppose, it's what he didn't do. So I became a father and a husband. I protected them from him.
The worst part is I still crave his affection. His attention. His hugs and smiles.
And I've searched for that in dangerous ways. I've entertained men I shouldn't have. Consented to things I shouldn't have. Because they would give me validation, attention.
But he's gotten better, my dad. I hug him more and he kisses my head. We laugh together.
And then, every so often, I disdain him.
Because from him grew the worst parts of me.
10-4-23
YOU ARE READING
Afternoon Thoughts
Non-Fictionメ Thoughts of a bleeding mind. Sometimes, the darkest thoughts swirl to become the most beautiful dance when woven into words. To write calms me. Perhaps someone will know these feelings.
