I grew up watching a damaged man trying to be a father. He didn’t have the best example, but I don’t accept this as an excuse.
The outcome? All my relationships have been with damaged men. 

It’s not for lack of trying to talk some sense into my father. There was always alcohol involved in those arguments/discussions about his views on religion and his chauvinistic ways. I enjoyed the arguing and debating and I thought if I gave him an intelligent argument against his ways, he might change. The alcohol was not helping. You don’t see these things as a factor until you have experienced the effect of alcohol on memory yourself. 

All relationships have ended with me being cast aside, but mostly, casting myself aside. But not this time.

I’m still angry. I’m angry because I still feel that you don’t understand how much I gave up.

3 years. Three years of argument after argument. But that’s not the point. I am most angry about how you accepted my words of comfort and “wisdom”, as you called it then and as you call it now, while sneaking around. Lurking around. Behind my back. While I thought I was helping you. All was for nought. Zero. Nothing.

I crumbled behind my walls that day. My walls just kept getting higher and thicker. I still remain in pieces behind them. The years thereafter grew easier to handle because of the meth. I was able to pick and choose the bits to show to you. It became a carousel behind my eyes; I would portray the picture you would want to see, no more. Just a series of flashing pictures. How it became so easy to hide my own double life.

Now I try to sew them together. I’ve never been the best at that. I have never had someone who could show me the way for once, without betrayal or heart break.


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