i dont tell people when something they’ve done has hurt me. i dont. i keep it to myself. i dont speak up. i push it inside and try and forget about it. i put on the brave face and just tough through it.

and maybe, when im alone… ill deal with it. maybe not.

maybe its because i have this uncanny knack to simply talk myself out of ever bringing it up with said person.

maybe its because i was brought up with the knowledge that anything that happened to me, any freakin thing was something i should be thankful for.

i was never allowed to cry. or show any emotion outside of what i was told to show.

heck, that was my entire life. i was always ‘on show’. we had to dress the part of the happy christian family. we had to look like a nuclear family. we had to show we loved each other. even when, at times… we didnt.

we were never ever allowed to speak up. or quesiton. or argue. it was my dads way, or my dads punishment.

i hated him. i hate him.

i hate him for what he did to my sisters. i hate him for how he treated, or didnt treat, my mom. my mom is a freakin princess and he treated her like trash.

and i hate him the most for what he wasnt.

for the fact that im 27 and i dont know how to be who im supposed to be. how i dont have memories in my life to look back on and be “oh, THATS how im supposed to handle that situation”. i dont have a history i want to remember. i dont have a namsake i want to carry on.

i dont have a father.

and i never did

i know, you can say ‘grow the heck up pj’. and you’re right. you are. i cant sit here and allow my past to dictate my future. i cant let my life be controlled by things i wasnt able to change, back then. im responsible, ultimately, for my own destiny. i am.

and im trying. probably not enough. heck, i know its not enough. i know i hide behind my pain. i know i use it now more as a defence, as a… weakness to lean on. its become a part of who i am… and no longer something im fighting against.

part of me wants to live free. wants to drop this weight. wants to be able to look at a pretty girl and ask her out. and not see, or think about… how much pain could have been avoided had my father simply not asked my mother out.

can you belive this? im 27. i cant believe it.

when i was 20, i wanted to be married by now. i did.

i still do.

you know, ive written all of this. all of this crap that ive carried around for so long. knowing full well that there are moments where i almost lose it. moments where you’d never think you’d see a grown man cry. moments when, maybe my boss offered a bit of praise. or, a hug from a pastor.

ive written all this, knowing what was lost… and i know im only scratching the surface. i know there is more. why? because i compartmentalize. because i dont deal with stuff. i’ve never dealt with stuff. i was never shown how to deal. i was just expected to swallow it and move the hell on.

ive written all this. and ive not even shed a tear. someone i care for deeply, once sent me a text message. she said that she wondered if hear tear ducts had forgotten how to cry. im beginning to wonder that myself.

ive written all of this. and yeah, maybe it is only scratching the surface…. maybe there is more scratching to go. maybe this is barely a dent on what it will take….

but i cant quit.

i may end up having to rebuild the entirety of the foundations i never had… but i cant quit.

there are pretty girls out there. there are dates worth being on. there is a hope of me living life. without fear. without wondering if ill repeat the screwups of my father.

i may be scratching the surface, but at least underneath… im still alive.

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