The Tears We Shed

It’s such an odd feeling

It’s such an odd feeling. I should be sad. I should be broken, devastated. At the very least, crying...

But the thing is... I’m not.

I’m not sad.

I’m not sad, but I’m not happy either.

God, if I was happy, I’d know there was something wrong with me... Happy that my father died. What a freak I am.

But I’m not happy... I feel different. My skinistinglingandIfeelcoldanditallseemsso surreal.

I could wake up any minute now, and he would be standing next to my bed, the burning candle in his hand dripping hot wax dangerously close to my body. And sometimes, sometimes, a drop or two would hit me. But I wouldn’t cry, no, because I’m the girl who can’t cry.

Maybe that’s why he changed. Because I couldn’t cry when Mum died... We all loved her so much. And she died and it was bloody and messy and terrible. A car crash. And we dressed up in black and there were so many tears but none of them were mine.

Maybe that’s why my father changed. Maybe that’s why he started telling me that I was a waste of life and a fuckingpieceofshit and that he hated me.

Maybe that’s why he started hitting me and threatening me and making me do things to him that no daughter should ever have to do to her father.

Maybe that’s why he started drinking and started with the hot wax and the nights in a bathtub of ice and everything else.

Because I should have cried. Because then he would have known that I was sad when she died. But he didn’t know that I was sad. I was, I swear, I was so sad. I could have died with her, but I had to live for my dad. Because I loved him, just like I loved my mom.

But then my father died too... And this new man was born, a man who looked like my father, talked like my father, walked like my father, but he just wasn’t my father. He wasn’t the man I had grown up with and loved.

And then it all started. And I didn’t cry. Because I couldn’t.

I never told anyone, because I still thought he was my father, and I loved my father.

And then I finally realized that he wasn’t my father anymore, that he couldn’t be my father anymore. Because what father abuses their child?

I was going to tell someone. I swear I was. So, it was two years late and maybe no one would believe me, but I was going to tell somebody and I felt better just thinking about it.

And then that man died. Heart attack in his office chair. And I’m sitting here next to his coffin, unable to look away from his dead body and I’m shaking and I’m numb and

I’m crying.

I’m crying.

I’m crying.

I can’t cry for my mother, I can’t cry for myself, but I can cry for this sick, twisted man who I want so desperately to be my father again?

What is wrong with me?

But maybe these are my tears for everything, for everyone.

I was going to tell everyone my dirty little secret, that my father abused me, that he told me he hated me, that everyone hated me, that I didn’t deserve to be loved by anyone.

But now he’s in a coffin, ready to be put under six feet of dirt. And I’m going to keep it my dirty little secret.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

This room will be full of people who liked my father. And who am I to ruin their final image of him?

I’m his daughter, that’s who.

I ignore that voice... Because if I don’t think or feel or anything... If I just remember, maybe I can see him as my father. You know... just once more.

I’m so confused right now. The cream walls are blurring and the somber paintings are drippingdownthewalls. And everything is so hot, so cold. And I ache oh so badly. I feel the hot wax and the ice baths all over again and I’m about to fucking die.

And it’s all over. And I’m still sitting in my chair. And the coffin is still there and it crosses my mind that it might have just been better to burn everything.

But who would have been left with the ashes? Because , God, the memories are more than enough.

The first mourners come in and they immediately gravitate to my side, expressing their sympathy and offering help... And I wonder where there were when I needed help, and I’m being impossible because they didn’t know and they would never know and I should just forget it all.

Forgive and forget... who knows if I can ever do either?

They all sit in their chairs, such neat, orderly lines of grief and crying... And I have to stand up and face them and my knees are weak. I lean on the podium, resting my weight on it and

i remember my father and how he used to pick me up and spin me around and i was weightless

I close my eyes but I can still feel them, waiting for me to speak. And it’s all too much. Because I swear they can see my scars.

And I say something and I have no idea what I said. Just a few words. And I can’t take it anymore and I run out of the room... Maybe I make the perfect picture of distraught grief, running out to cry. But if anyone comes out to comfort me, they won’t find me crying. Because I already shed my tears.

"I miss my father."