Dot Dot Dot
Every year I run the risk of slipping into depression around this time. I think it's safe to say I'm a Seasonal Affective Disorder sufferer. The fact is, I know that, and for the most part I've gained control over it. The trouble is when outside influences start depressing me at the same time. While I struggle to remember that it's the lack of sun and cold weather bringing me down, I can't help those niggling thoughts of the OTHER shit going on. Yes. Because that's exactly what it is.
I don't remember who I've told or what I've told them. I think it's safe to assume there isn't a soul out there who isn't family who knows the whole story, save Byron. My brain has been almost completely fucked-over by my sorry excuse for a father, and yet I still struggle to explain exactly why that is.
Sometimes I wish I could say he hit me. Sometimes I wish I could tell myself he did, and then learn to believe it. With a physical incident, I would know what to focus on, pinpoint my hatred on precisely that point...much like my brother (who doesn't have to tell himself stories). But what can I say? He was my father but never my father? He was my father in the sense that he appreciated the THOUGHT of having children? He was my father, but could just as easily given it up? He was my father, left, but never physically removed himself? I hardly know what I mean.
The trouble is that as much as I've resented him over the years, and more recently grown to hate him, I haven't been able to let any of that take over. What kind of heart is it that beats through 21 years of emotional abuse, years of being tortured and lied to and cajoled, and crushed, and ripped to shreds...only keep beating for more. Why is it that I can't say the things I desperately want to for sake of a stabbing fear that I'd actually hurt him?
Maybe it's me. Or maybe it's (revelation) the knowledge that he WON'T be hurt by it. That I could tell him how screwed up I am after this lifesized sick game of his...and he'd manage to turn it around into being my own fault, into being the victim. Maybe I hold myself back from hurting him through my words because in the end they'll hurt me. Defensive much?
Just how am I supposed to manage to wake up each morning with all of that resting on my shoulders, face a job I'm growing to hate, in a place I don't want to be, and without my best friend/lover/husband/everything?
I don't want comments on this bunch of poorly-conceived, poorly-written gibberish. I don't want people who don't really know me telling me things will be okay, or comparing their life to mine. I don't want to pretend to care, or even actually care. I don't even know why I'm putting this in a journal other than acting on the need for some kind of release. I know exactly what and who will help, but as they are all out of my reach at the moment, it feels like there is no other choice but to lay myself out for strangers.