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God Bless The Never-Ending Bond

by Brittany Ann on September 4, 2013

It’s been 12-ish years since I’ve seen or spoken to my abusive father: truly mentally ill, sadist, the most evil eyes. The domestic violence in our house, the child abuser who fucked my sexuality, who raped my body and violated the path to emotional health that every child deserves for life.

But… he had the most translucent blue eyes.

The truth is that anymore, I can list just as many reasons to want to contact him as I can not to contact him. Maybe the reason is that it is unnatural to sever, to just slice right through, the connection to one’s parents. Maybe I want to get my mother’s attention in the worst way; her knowing that I’ve talked to her own abuser after so many years. It would wind her up that I’ve talked to him but haven’t spoken to her in over 3 years.

Really though, I think that I just want it all to come full circle. I don’t want to do it for anyone but myself. But what if that’s the last straw for me? What if the grime that I can’t scrub off of me increases and drowns any (survivor) coping skills out?

Daddy…

© photo by emma.kate via flickr.

© photo by emma.kate via flickr.

Call me a liar. Call me a whore. Do one of your favorites: pushing a woman down from behind and pummeling her with your fists. But why can’t I have you if I need you? Why can’t I move on to peace between us if I don’t want us to hurt each other any more?

I will never be able to completely heal the sickness you have infected me with. So why do we have to pretend that you aren’t in my life? We both know that I wake up with you affecting me each and every day.

Daddy?

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