Tokyo

I get triggered a lot. Sometimes, it just hits me like a bullet rapidly shooting out of the barrel of a gun.
A song. A tv show. A statement someone makes without realizing. It matters. It hurts.
Mostly the bullets firing as me are my father. Music. Smells. Fleeting thoughts of missing him.
It triggers me, I think, because my father is dead. Not dead in the traditional sense that he's in a casket in the ground.
No. He's dead to me. That happened a long time ago when he chose to jump off the bridge of my trust.
And boy did he jump. Instant death when he hit the water. Haven't spoken to him since.
But he's still there. It is what it is. It bothers me, yes, that I don't speak to him or see him. But do I really want to?
I am so much like him it scares me. It scares me so much that he's not dead, but lives inside me every day and I wonder if today will be the day that he steps in and takes over.
I wonder if today is the day I will drown myself into an oblivion in a 12 pack of the beer I cannot look at since I can only imagine it catapulting at my face to destroy me like a heat seeking missile.
Too many times I have looked in the mirror to see his face staring back at me-cold, uncaring. Part of me wishes he was dead. Actually dead and six feet under so I could dance on his grave. Part of me wishes I could put him there myself and perhaps with that, kill all of the hatred and miserable pieces of him inside me.
To finally be free of him.
To not be constantly haunted by what could have been and what he pretended to be for so many years.
He triggers me. He's the reason I need aggressive amounts of therapy. But I don't go. Because I already know the words therapy will whisper.
Daddy issues.
Yeah so?
So what if sometimes I can't even look at myself because I look too much like him?
So what if alcohol sometimes tastes like blood and a swollen cheek?
So what if some days I am suffocated by flashbacks of music and daddy's girl just to rip myself out of them to open the wound again and again until I can't breath and I'm bleeding in old memories that were never truly real?
How can they ever be real when the star of the show is an Oscar nominated actor?
A round of applause for him right?
He made me look like I was the actor ready to deliver the lines only to discover I have the wrong script and I'm completely naked.
Exposed.
Mortified.
Disgusted with myself for ever believing I knew better. For ever believing he was the good guy.
I use to believe he was the Batman to my Robin, but I finally see
he is Godzilla and I am Tokyo.