Earlier this year, we had lunch at the Shari's by the Franklin Park Mall. It was our first significant contact in some time, and, surprisingly, I was the one that initiated it, by calling you and inviting you to talk.
I wanted to give us a shot. I wanted to at least make an attempt at having a relationship with my father. I wanted to let you know that I understood why you were so angry, that, in the nearly two decades that I've spent trying to recover, I've come to realize how the cycle of abuse propagates.
So we talked. It went okay, for the most part. I told you the things I wanted to tell you, and I opened the door for us to have some kind of relationship, and then you kinda slammed it shut. As we got deeper into our conversation, it started to become apparent that you either had no idea what you had done to drive me away, or were willingly refusing to acknowledge it. You implied a belief that I avoided you because you had been unable to help me. This is in line with your non-apologies of the past, about how no one told you how to raise a child.
Here's the thing about that: that puts the onus on me. That makes me the problem, the one who was defective. Accordingly, to this day, I see myself as the failure, as the problem.
There was something about your inability to admit that you abused me, your insistence that you simply didn't know what to do with me, that slapped me in the face. It hurt, you know? Do you know how hard it was to not see you as a monster? Do you have any idea how much thought and self-discovery it took to understand that you were only lashing out because of what happened to you?
I've spent 20 years of my life and more trying to cope with the shit you did to me. It's been agony. Do you know how often I think about killing myself just because of how much work I have left to do? It's pretty goddamned constant. But I persist. I persist because of the people who love me. I persist because, deep down in the darkness, and the self-loathing, and the despair, some small part of me still thinks life is worth living. As much as I'm hesitant to think admit it for fear of complimenting myself, I've done an incredible amount of work, and made an incredible amount of progress.
The least you could have done was admit what you did. The least you could have given me was an actual apology. Instead, you threw that bullshit in my face. Again.
Well, fuck you. I persist. I persist, and I remain extant in spite of you and what you did to me. I don't need you in my life. I don't want you in my life. And all this bullshit you've left me with, this inability to appreciate my accomplishments, this daily misery and existential angst is going as well.
The real bitch about this letter is that, despite that last paragraph, I still have sympathy for you. I still understand you, much as I might not want to, because I've been you. But I'm leaving that behind, and I'm leaving you behind, and I don't think I'm gonna look back, at least not for a long while.
