They don't notice the pain I'm in. Only how much alcohol is consumed.
Yesterday he made a comment about how little alcohol there was left. My brother did. In the context this was in, it was almost certainly about me. Yes I drink too much. Yes I drank that in particular. I didn't know it was yours or it was being saved for anything. I'm sorry. If I knew, I would have bought my own.
Then you would be happy, right? Because I'm not drinking your alcohol.
While you were away at college or whatever you were doing back then, I was being beat up. I was a child. You never noticed.
But now that I drink your liquor to drown the pain, you notice.
It's fine.
Today my dad brought up that dream he had about dying. He's 66. He wants to die. He keeps talking about how peaceful it will be.
Dad, was it you who choked me? I have a vague memory. I know I was scared of you. I was only small. Was it my fault? What if my memories are wrong? What if you did nothing and I was just so scared that I fabricated that moment in my own mind, when you picked me up by my child neck and squeezed with your grown adult grip. Fabricated memories—especially surrounding trauma—have been known to happen. It was taught it to me in psychology class.
Either way, fake or real memories, I'm not ready for you to die, Dad. Too much has gone unanswered. Too many unresolved feelings.
I can't believe you talk about how peaceful death must be, and how much you're ready to go, around your wife and son. You don't realize the effect that has? And then you just segway right into making jokes and expecting me to laugh.
The clock is ticking. Everything in our lives that occurred between us will be written in stone. So many unanswered questions. So many feelings unresolved. They still bother me. Are you really ready to go?
I'm so confused by everything. So many muddy details and grey areas over my entire life. Time keeps moving and I still don't know what to do with them.
I don't know if God exists but I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell.
Maybe I'm already there.
I love you, Dad. Please don't leave me.
Then you would be happy, right? Because I'm not drinking your alcohol.
While you were away at college or whatever you were doing back then, I was being beat up. I was a child. You never noticed.
But now that I drink your liquor to drown the pain, you notice.
It's fine.
Today my dad brought up that dream he had about dying. He's 66. He wants to die. He keeps talking about how peaceful it will be.
Dad, was it you who choked me? I have a vague memory. I know I was scared of you. I was only small. Was it my fault? What if my memories are wrong? What if you did nothing and I was just so scared that I fabricated that moment in my own mind, when you picked me up by my child neck and squeezed with your grown adult grip. Fabricated memories—especially surrounding trauma—have been known to happen. It was taught it to me in psychology class.
Either way, fake or real memories, I'm not ready for you to die, Dad. Too much has gone unanswered. Too many unresolved feelings.
I can't believe you talk about how peaceful death must be, and how much you're ready to go, around your wife and son. You don't realize the effect that has? And then you just segway right into making jokes and expecting me to laugh.
The clock is ticking. Everything in our lives that occurred between us will be written in stone. So many unanswered questions. So many feelings unresolved. They still bother me. Are you really ready to go?
I'm so confused by everything. So many muddy details and grey areas over my entire life. Time keeps moving and I still don't know what to do with them.
I don't know if God exists but I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell.
Maybe I'm already there.
I love you, Dad. Please don't leave me.
