Father. That is a word I'm supposed to use for a caretaker. Someone who cares about and for me. But for me it's not.
Why would my “father” do the things he did to me. Why did he cause me so much pain? Why is he the reason my hands shake as I press these keys?
My father was supposed to love me. Does using your child as a god damn ashtray count as love? Does tormenting him to the point he has no reason to believe he deserves his own life count?
Maybe it was the day in and out constant mental torture or was it the marks you would leave? Was it the blood you drew from my body or the mental scars that I can't show anyone?
Or is it the pillow covered in tears and blood? Is it how I can't be happy anymore without worrying I'm doing something wrong?
Is it the anxiety of asking for a glass of water or to use the restroom in my own home?
Why? Why did he do any of it? Was I a terrible child? Did I breathe too much? Did I look at you the wrong way? Was it the fact the I tried to care about you? Did it make you feel better?
Did seeing your child with a blade in his wrist make you feel good about yourself?
You are the reason I am the way I am. But I'm the reason I'm still here today.