He lied to me. He stole from me. He told me I was nothing.
He knew we were hungry and wanting, but he preferred prison to palimony.
He locked me in a car once, for hours, so that I could not escape his abuse.
He kicked me out of the house for wearing shorts to a family BBQ.
My tears were his fuel.
He used his children as:
a) tactical weapons against our mother
or
b) ornaments to be paraded around family events twice annually, and then ignored
He hit me, and called me names, but it was never enough to dull his anger.
He taught me to be wary of everyone, and that some bruises you wear forever, and that 'deadbeat dad' is not just an expression, but a pretty apt description.
And then when I told him that his services as a father were no longer required, he never looked back. Not a trace of regret in his cold, blue eyes. He took his family with him. My aunts, my uncles, my cousins, my grandmother, and my godmother, orchestrated a simultaneous turning-of-the-backs. A whole family history, wiped away in one fell swoop.
Most days, I do not think of him. Most months, I do not think of him. If there were good times, I don't remember them. If he ever hugged me, or said kind words to me, they are lost now, forever. I haven't seen or spoken to him in years, but I woke up today and thought It's his birthday, 6 days after mine. Did he think of me then? Does he think of me ever?
I wonder sometimes if he knows where I am.
I wonder if he knows what I'm doing, or if I'm even still alive.
I wonder, when he meets someone new, if he says he has 3 children, or 4.
I wonder when it will all stop hurting.
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