The year of living actually

She wrote, "lightning rod (and sacrificial lamb) who drew the monster's wrath and made their existence more comfortable. Is it any wonder they will not (dare not) acknowledge your pain?" And I sense the rightness, that their words belied, but their lack of questions revealed. No one asked me, "why did this happen? What did you see, were you ever happy, did you feel unsafe, what can we do to make it better?" They don't ask me questions, they don't want to know the answers. Of course they don't.

Any real father would have begged them to reach out to me, at the last, as he lay dying. Of course, he didn't because he hated me, as I hated him. No one could even come up with a lie about him asking for me. What kind of person thinks this is normal, or that it is the full fault of the daughter? I never told them how he would talk about how much they hurt him, hated him, how often he threatened to disown them, and blame me preemptively for how I would do the same in my turn. The year he was laid off was the start of the worst bits, but it all grated away any sense of sanity or safety.

This clear sight of just how bad it really was is a great comfort. Like the last, vital, piece of a puzzle I've been working all my life. It's not pretty, but the truth of it forms a stark beauty. I am not loved for myself, but neither was I hated for who I actually was, or am now. A peace descends, settling on me like deep snow fall, erasing my fears of the dark.

I have doubted my perceptions, examining them for any chance of acquittal, for self deception, personal insanity, even as I knew, knew I had the right end of the stick. Even when I didn't have the words to explain, trying to protect my mother from him. His death has caused me to grieve and mourn, not for him, but that I was given the illusion of a family rather than a real family.