I thought I was done with this place... I really thought I could handle my fears, my pain, and all the hurtful things on my own now.... What a stupid lie. What a stupid and ignorant lie. I was wrong, so very wrong that it hurts. I made this place to shelter the painful feelings and after some time I was beginning to feel the warmth of reality after being lost in a dream for so long. I had thought that I wouldn't need this place full of all the pain I've locked between these words rather than within myself, within my thoughts and my heart.I thought I could finally be strong enough to stand on my own two feet... but I was wrong. I'm weak. I'm so very weak. My mask will only take me so far. After all that has happened, my dad especially.... That's right, I haven't said anything about all of this, about all the things that have happened. I thought I wouldn't need to come here and say anything... but that was my stupid hope, a hope I should have known wouldn't work out. I should have known how weak I was. After the ups and downs of having hope my dad would pull through, eventually along the line somewhere, I just gave up completely.It was easier to give up any hope of him surviving, it was easier to convince myself he was dead rather than have hope he would be fine and find out he died in spite of my hope. Hope is useless. Hope won't change what will occur. Hope won't change the fact that he went in and out of surgery, or the fact that when I went to visit him he looked so frail. He looked like he would break, like that was the last time I would ever see him... and I had no choice in the matter. I didn't want to go see him, I didn't want to see him like that. I wish I had never gone. You're reading this thinking I'm just saying that, but you don't get it. I've lived without regrets and now I believe the only regret I have is going to see him. I would have rather seen him once he was better, or at the very least, email or texts, but not that. Not seeing him like that. I wish I hadn't seen him. I wish I hadn't. Seeing him didn't make things better, seeing him unable to speak and so close to death only brought more pain, more fear, more sadness. I didn't want that. I didn't want to feel so close to giving up on seeing him ever again in this life. I didn't want to feel like I had to die just to see him again. I didn't want to feel like that, but after seeing him, I did. So I shut it off. I shut off the pain, locked it away with ALL other things that hurt me. EVERYTHING was locked away. Things about my mom, things about being lonely, things about being mentally abused by my family when I was younger, anything that hurt was locked deep inside. Every now and again, some of it would resurface and in fear of the pain, the memories, and the tears, I would push it back down and lock it up again, except it would be a tighter lock every time. I would have rather died than feel like this again after such a long time.
I'm still locking it away... I had no idea how much pain just doing that would cause. I want to cry. I want to feel even just a little bit. It hurts. I don't remember how I used to be able to let it out before. I can't remember how I used to allow myself to feel and then move on. How did I do it? Even now, while I'm writing this, I want to cry, but I can't. I feel the tears in my eyes, but they choke up and fade away too quickly. It hurts. I want to feel something again. Something.... I used to be so strong. I used to be able to shoulder this burden. Hearing the things about my dad, going to see him, being trapped in this house with my mom and the family I resent and hate for what they did to me. All of it has made me weak again. That fantasy I was lost in not long ago, the one that was literally inches away from killing me, it seems so inviting now. I want to go back. It was easier then. I felt none of this because it didn't exist. Nothing but my fantasy world existed... Daddy....
It's easier to let myself believe him to be dead. I don't know if he'll read this, but it doesn't matter. Not now. If he's alive, then that's fine. Just please, please don't tell me unless you're sure you're back at 100% for good. If not, I don't want to feel that painful hope again. He's dead to me now. He died the day I went to see him. His heart stopped and he died. It's easier. He has no idea, none of them do. One day I get a call from the half sister who abandoned me saying our dad was in critical condition and headed to a hospital. "Daddy is going to die," was what I thought. "Before I even got the chance to know him at all, the only one I can't hate because I don't even know him. He's going to die. He's dying and I can't do anything. I can't do anything. I'm useless... please don't die." My hope began with that. "Please don't die." It was all I could think about for the next few weeks. Then I get a call saying his surgery went well, but was nowhere near fully recovered and would need rehab. "At least he's alive," right? No. I went to see him then, stuck in a long car ride with mom, her boyfriend, and my brother and his child. The last two were fine, but the first two fought, loudly.
Ever since I saw my mom and dad fight the night before he left, I've always been afraid of fights. It hurts to see two people fight loudly and shout things. It hurts even more when I try to stop it with "please don't fight" and get yelled at with "shut up." "Shut up" has become a poisonous phrase due to my brother when he was younger. He used to tell me that all the time after Daddy left. The reaction I had then hasn't changed to this day. The moment I hear it I shut down. I go quiet and fearful of the slightest sound, afraid I'll be yelled at again. Fear. Fear. So much fear. When I went to see Daddy, my hands were shaking. Fear of what I would see setting into my heart. I don't love Daddy, I can't love him when I don't know him. It's the same reason I can't hate him. But that doesn't mean that I don't fear his death. Even if no one else "fears" his death, I do. I'm deathly afraid of it. "Please let me at least get to know you first." "Don't die yet." "Not yet." The moment I saw him: wires, tubes, and monitors everywhere. My brother took the lead and started saying hi. Daddy couldn't talk. He couldn't talk. "He's not better yet." "Why did I hope in the first place when he's not better yet?" I said hi, clenching my fists, holding back tears. Fighting the loss of hope, fighting the pain in my chest that gripped at my breath. "It's okay, he'll get better." There it was again, hope. I said my goodbyes, said "I love you" like it was the last chance I had. You think I'm being dramatic for thinking so much over his inability to speak. "Well of course! He was just in surgery! There's bound to be recovery time. Just be patient!" I was. Patience... yeah, I had it. I had it. Then my half sister called again. She said he was rushed to another hospital, another heart valve ruptured or something else unexpected and urgent happened. "Hope... what was the point? He was going to die anyways." I had patience, I had hope, but nothing changed. Believing in something doesn't change fate. Believing in a fantasy won't change reality. Heh... ironic, isn't it? I was living in a fantasy for 5 years, all alone in my own world without anyone noticing. I had to realize that hiding from my reality, my fate, wouldn't change anything... and yet, I still believed that hoping Daddy would get better would guarantee his recovery. I'm a fool. I'm a stupid fool.
After all this, I was done hoping. I gave up. In that moment, Daddy was dead. He wasn't coming back. Just like the night he left out the door of this house, he was never going to come back. I said my goodbyes... but it still hurt. To me, and to no one else's knowledge, in my heart and in my mind, I forced myself to accept that Daddy was dead. I forced the pain to go away. I forced ALL the pain to disappear It's gone. All the tears are gone. I said goodbye to more than just Daddy. I said goodbye to all my emotions. I don't know how to get them back. I want to feel again. It feels like when I was in my fantasy. During that time, I felt nothing. How could I? Nothing around me was real, so none of it could hurt me. Maybe that's why the silence made my head hurt so much.
Back then and still true now, I was afraid of silence. Do you know that sound you hear when there is no sound to be heard? That high-pitched nothingness. Back then it hurt my head so bad that I wouldn't be able to take it. I would scream of the floor in pain. I called them my "attacks." Some weren't so bad, some were horrible. I remember two of the worst. The first: I was at home alone and I had the TV on (back when I still watched TV) and the moment I turned it off, the silence set in. I heard that sound and the pain was unbearable. I screamed and screamed until my own screams made the silence disappear The second: it was late at night and I woke up from the heat. People were home, but it was still quiet at that time of the night. I listen to music as I fall asleep because of my fear, but after that goes off, there's no sound in my room. The silence became deafening. I clenched my teeth, grabbed my head, covering my ears, and wished the pain to stop. I wanted it to go away. But it wouldn't. I started banging my head against the wall, hoping it would stop. "Make it stop, make it stop." I kept saying it over and over, like a chant to the gods (if they exist). My mom woke up to go to work around this time and heard the banging from my room. She came in to see what was going on and she couldn't figure out what I was talking about. Eventually, she accidentally pressed a button on my stereo and turned my music back on. The silence stopped. I told her I was fine and to leave, so she left to get ready for work - clueless of what had happened. I concentrated on the music and calmed myself. That was when it really hit me that not one person in this house gave enough crap about me to notice the pain I was in. Even though they were always around, they never knew. The next day, I tried to talk to my mom. She had forgotten all about it. I gave up. I had no hope in the first place, but I couldn't feel anything at the time, so giving up was easier than trying. The past repeats itself I guess. It's easier to give up.
Normally I try to end these posts with some bit of inspirational stuff to lift myself up after finally getting it all out, but not this time. This only scratched the surface of what I've buried deep inside. But I've had enough. I don't want to think anymore. I don't want to go anyfurther. For now, I'm done, and even if I had continued with this, I don't think I would have ever been able to get it all out. It's been 18 years. That's a lot of time filled with painful memories. I don't have the strength to think about the painful things for such a long time. I've had enough. I'm done.
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