"You were a mistake."
Those were his exact words. God knows I sometimes take poetic license and exaggerate just a smidge conversations or words that were said, but in this case it was a direct quote. I don't remember the whole conversation word for word, just that line. I also don't remember him saying afterwards ".....but I'm so happy we had you." or ".... you were the best mistake I ever made." I don't remember him saying that because he didn't.
In my logical mind today as a 39 year old woman I can look at the fact that as an 18 year old kid with two babies under one (my brother and I are 10 months apart), both in diapers, both unplanned pregnancies that it must have been crazy overwhelming. But as that kid, that awkward, ugly, bruised and damaged kid all I heard was I never wanted you. I don't want you. I don't love you. You're not beautiful or special or worthy and my life would be so much better without you.
And really, I forget what I did yesterday but those words have never left me, it's a tape that runs through my head in vivid detail. In my mind's eye I can see our living room, that ugly, faded couch with the mustard yellow patterned upholstery and the tufted buttons. It was summer and I had on shorts, shorts that I bulged out of and I felt the cold bite from the metal ring where the button should have sat on digging into my thigh. He was drunk, again, telling stories about the good ole days - you know, the ones when he was drinking with his buddies. I honestly don't ever remember him telling stories about times when he came to see us in a school concert or play a sport but then again it's difficult to have memories of events you never attended. What I remember is how his eyes lit up when he talked about his adventures in drinking, how he laughed remembering a specific event - usually ones involving copious amounts of alcohol being consumed and then getting into whatever car and driving around, because his love for drinking was nearly on par with cars and really, nothing's funnier than drinking and driving. He got on the topic of when I was born and that's when he said it. I was a mistake.
If he had taken a gun and pressed the cold barrel against my chest and pulled the trigger it would have hurt less. I could have taken that pain, but as it was he ripped out a piece of my heart that day and stomped it into the ground.
My Dad would never have won Father of the Year, he never told me he loved me or hugged me. He drank. He got angry a lot and he scared me. He was impatient and selfish. He never asked about anything in my life and would rattle on about General Motors (where he worked) for hours, and I know nothing about cars. I think a little bit of me died that day because I always had this stupid hope in my head that deep down he loved me. Even though I would spend hours sitting on that cold concrete step outside the Janetville store after my shift waiting for him because he forgot to pick me up and I was exhausted after being in school all day and then working I had that stupid hope. Most often he'd show up drunk, no apologies or on the rare times that I allowed myself to feel angry for him being such a dick I would start that long walk home in the dark (I mean this was the country, there were no street lights - just never ending dark) and eventually he'd come along, but I couldn't express my anger to him because that wouldn't be okay - still, I had hope. But then he said those words and that hope, it died. He killed it.
Maybe my vision is skewed on this because I can't ever have my own kids, my feminine bits are nothing but spare parts rattling around, hacked away at by doctors and cancer and I would have given anything to have my own baby. There have been times that I just ached because I held someone's baby in my arms and smelled the top of their sweet head and I hoped so much for my own. And I wonder, how did he hold me in his arms when I was a little baby, so innocent and new and not feel overwhelmed with love and protectiveness? I look at those pictures of me as a baby and my heart aches, I was beautiful. I was precious. Why wasn't I enough? Why was I not protected and held and kept safe and loved? How did he not see my hurt as I was growing up? How did he let me suffer? How did he not see how damaged I was? And why after all this time and therapy can this rip at my heart and make me cry?
It's crazy how those words have had such far reaching consequences and how despite how devastated I felt at his words (and actions) I've done my best to recreate that relationship over and over again in my life. How fucking sick is that? I seem to have gone out of my way to chose and create relationships where my safety is neither expected or required. I have chosen people who are either emotionally unavailable or abusive - and it's not like these weren't hidden flaws, I knew what it was from the beginning. I think at the root of it all I don't believe I deserve to be loved and this is where the sexual addiction comes in. Or at least a part of it, realistically there's a whole other ball of wax at play here. But if my own father didn't want a relationship with me (get your mind's out of the gutter!), I mean a loving father-daughter relationship then why would any man ever want me as a partner? My value is sex. Not sharing myself, because that's too fucking scary. Not being vulnerable because god knows they already have the ability to hurt me and I can't open myself like that.
I write about most things as if I have my shit together and I'm so kick-ass and really, I'm just floundering around here just trying my best to keep my head above the water. I think the worst thing about this all is those words, what he said, I took them into my heart and I owned them. I validated them. And I hurt that little girl in so many fucking ways that I made his words real. And my Dad, well I don't need to forgive him.... he is who he is and that's not going to change but I need to forgive myself. I need to find peace in my heart because I don't want to continue making the same mistakes, punishing myself over and over again. How do I do that? I don't have a fucking clue, but I think writing this was a good start.
In my logical mind today as a 39 year old woman I can look at the fact that as an 18 year old kid with two babies under one (my brother and I are 10 months apart), both in diapers, both unplanned pregnancies that it must have been crazy overwhelming. But as that kid, that awkward, ugly, bruised and damaged kid all I heard was I never wanted you. I don't want you. I don't love you. You're not beautiful or special or worthy and my life would be so much better without you.
And really, I forget what I did yesterday but those words have never left me, it's a tape that runs through my head in vivid detail. In my mind's eye I can see our living room, that ugly, faded couch with the mustard yellow patterned upholstery and the tufted buttons. It was summer and I had on shorts, shorts that I bulged out of and I felt the cold bite from the metal ring where the button should have sat on digging into my thigh. He was drunk, again, telling stories about the good ole days - you know, the ones when he was drinking with his buddies. I honestly don't ever remember him telling stories about times when he came to see us in a school concert or play a sport but then again it's difficult to have memories of events you never attended. What I remember is how his eyes lit up when he talked about his adventures in drinking, how he laughed remembering a specific event - usually ones involving copious amounts of alcohol being consumed and then getting into whatever car and driving around, because his love for drinking was nearly on par with cars and really, nothing's funnier than drinking and driving. He got on the topic of when I was born and that's when he said it. I was a mistake. 
If he had taken a gun and pressed the cold barrel against my chest and pulled the trigger it would have hurt less. I could have taken that pain, but as it was he ripped out a piece of my heart that day and stomped it into the ground.My Dad would never have won Father of the Year, he never told me he loved me or hugged me. He drank. He got angry a lot and he scared me. He was impatient and selfish. He never asked about anything in my life and would rattle on about General Motors (where he worked) for hours, and I know nothing about cars. I think a little bit of me died that day because I always had this stupid hope in my head that deep down he loved me. Even though I would spend hours sitting on that cold concrete step outside the Janetville store after my shift waiting for him because he forgot to pick me up and I was exhausted after being in school all day and then working I had that stupid hope. Most often he'd show up drunk, no apologies or on the rare times that I allowed myself to feel angry for him being such a dick I would start that long walk home in the dark (I mean this was the country, there were no street lights - just never ending dark) and eventually he'd come along, but I couldn't express my anger to him because that wouldn't be okay - still, I had hope. But then he said those words and that hope, it died. He killed it.
Maybe my vision is skewed on this because I can't ever have my own kids, my feminine bits are nothing but spare parts rattling around, hacked away at by doctors and cancer and I would have given anything to have my own baby. There have been times that I just ached because I held someone's baby in my arms and smelled the top of their sweet head and I hoped so much for my own. And I wonder, how did he hold me in his arms when I was a little baby, so innocent and new and not feel overwhelmed with love and protectiveness? I look at those pictures of me as a baby and my heart aches, I was beautiful. I was precious. Why wasn't I enough? Why was I not protected and held and kept safe and loved? How did he not see my hurt as I was growing up? How did he let me suffer? How did he not see how damaged I was? And why after all this time and therapy can this rip at my heart and make me cry?
It's crazy how those words have had such far reaching consequences and how despite how devastated I felt at his words (and actions) I've done my best to recreate that relationship over and over again in my life. How fucking sick is that? I seem to have gone out of my way to chose and create relationships where my safety is neither expected or required. I have chosen people who are either emotionally unavailable or abusive - and it's not like these weren't hidden flaws, I knew what it was from the beginning. I think at the root of it all I don't believe I deserve to be loved and this is where the sexual addiction comes in. Or at least a part of it, realistically there's a whole other ball of wax at play here. But if my own father didn't want a relationship with me (get your mind's out of the gutter!), I mean a loving father-daughter relationship then why would any man ever want me as a partner? My value is sex. Not sharing myself, because that's too fucking scary. Not being vulnerable because god knows they already have the ability to hurt me and I can't open myself like that.
I write about most things as if I have my shit together and I'm so kick-ass and really, I'm just floundering around here just trying my best to keep my head above the water. I think the worst thing about this all is those words, what he said, I took them into my heart and I owned them. I validated them. And I hurt that little girl in so many fucking ways that I made his words real. And my Dad, well I don't need to forgive him.... he is who he is and that's not going to change but I need to forgive myself. I need to find peace in my heart because I don't want to continue making the same mistakes, punishing myself over and over again. How do I do that? I don't have a fucking clue, but I think writing this was a good start.
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