Recollections of my youth

I am going to do something bald. I am going to write about something I've never before written about. I am going to blog about (at fucking 9 am on a Saturday morning that is! *rolls eyes*) about my relationship with my father.

I think calling them by name was some sort of protection gear. 'Mommy' and 'daddy' made me feel way too vulnerable, so it became R and P. It's funny how life sometimes tries to protect you from things that aren't good for you without you even noticing it. Ever tried eating a plant as a kid? It probably tasted really bitter and gross and you most likely spat it out immediately. That's life, that's your body protecting you from harm. The bitter taste is telling you to not eat that plant, it's poisenous and not good for survival. Ha, ain't evolution grand?
Well, same thing was the first name calling. I probably wouldn't have survived otherwise. Nobody likes to get hurt time after time, right? So you build some sort of invisible wall around you that they can't get through- or so you think. And for a while it may work, but only until you grow older you realize the damage done and you feel the pain you were supposed to feel years ago.
I remember that I never wanted to take my friends home to play when I was 9 or 10. I always wanted to go to their home and I always hoped their father wasn't home. I literally remember thinking "please, let him be still at work" and I felt very uncomfortable when the opposite was proven. Looking back, if that was not a sign of being fucked up I don't know what else it was.

I recall a school party I helped organizing for the seven graders when I was 15. I felt proud and I thought it was very cool that I, among others, was allowed to sit in the staff room drinking a beer with my teachers. I really felt good, cuz I got some recognision and i felt treated like an (almost) adult.
My 'dad' or donor, whatever D you prefer, was gonna pick me up from the party and accompany me on my way home. Completely not aware of the humiliation i would feel, he just entered the staff room at 10:50 pm and said he came to collect me. I was pretty pissed off at him and on the way home I asked him, not in the most polite way, why he had to come in and why he couldnt just have waited outside, as my mum and I had agreed he would pick me up at 11. He got mad and so did I. I cycled an other direction, knowing that that meant I would cycle alone for about two minutes and then we'd be on the same road again. Well, we met again after two minutes. D was furious and he threatened to drag me home by my hair next time. I burst into tears and quietly I told him I'd never see him as my dad ever again. And I didn't. As soon as we got home I ran upstairs to my room and went to bed, my clothes still on and crying, crying.


I must have been 7 or 8, maybe 9. It was a Sunday morning and we went off to visit my grandparents, like we did every Sunday until their death. It must have been raining because we went by car- normally we'd go by bike. My mom must have said somethng to him cuz all at a sudden he got infuriated and the car oscillitated from the left of the street to the right and back again. That was the first moment I really got scared that he might actually harm me physically one day. He never did, but he'd always threaten to do so. I remember his heavy breathing and his big venomous eyes and his quickly getting out the chair and raising his arm indicating he was angry because I or my brother had done something wrong. The only thing that would help keeping him from not actually hitting us was screaming loudly so my mom would come done and tell him to stop.
And no, I haven't gotten over it yet, I am certainly not ready to forgive, yet, as I feel the fear climb up my spine as I am writing this.


Honestly, I can not recall ever having had a normal conversation with him. Because of the scars he made in my soul I absolutely never wanted to have a normal conversation with him, I didn't want to share anything with or be dependent of the man who fucked with my head like that. I'd rather bring my bike to the cycle mender and pay a shitload of money than having to ask my father to do something for me. I just couldn't get the words off my lips. So the last couple of years I only talked to him when absolutely necessary and I would never say one word more than necessary.

Apparently he was very blind. He never ever asked me anything at all. He doesn't know more about me, his own flesh and blood (how much I hate that that's what I am)than an average somebody.
And maybe that's alright. It sure helped the wall around me from cracking.