Letter to my Father

Jesus Wept

More than you did…. More than most.

You are never going to read this and little do you realise it but you are never going to see me again (if I can help it). I wonder how that would make you feel? Nothing I suspect, possibly a show of hurt if it suited your purposes for other reasons.

I have seen you cry for dogs – I have only seen you sneer in my general direction as though I were a mangy cur. That’s how you make me feel by the way.

Is it because you hate my mother? For what she did? I could almost understand that, but only almost.

Now that I am a Father it is a constant barrier I run up against to understand or forgive you. And it is one that I find impossible to reconcile. You were unforgivable, I suppose the unrepentant abuser always is. And how repugnant it is that as soon as the word “abuse” is mentioned you conveniently choose to take it as a sexual accusation. There are so many other forms of abuse – and you a Master of them, knowing or unknowing – it makes no difference to the victims.

I aim not to be your victim, at least no longer – that is why I cannot really afford to see you again – that is why I must almost (but not quite) deny you as a father. I could make a joke of it and say, “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you”. I used to have fantasies of speaking at your funeral – now I have fantasies of murdering you.

I am not even sure I want to be at your funeral – except that this could cause me some deep shit – if I am there it will not be for your sake and not for your memory either. I think I shall choose to mourn my mother if I am there – at least then it will give all the appearances of grief- when in fact I remain so unresolved I am dancing on your grave and far from sad at your disappearance.

Do you have any memories of your Children?

Here’s one for you – holding my head and forcing a spoon into my mouth past resistant teeth (while mother holds my legs) to make me take my medicine.

Here’s another – calling me a pigs arse for eating my spaghetti and biting the ends off

And another – how you tried to steal the leather jacket I got for my fourteenth birthday.

Enough already – the last healthy and good memory I have of you is sitting on the front doorstep of Montpelier Road in the sunshine when I was trying to get my head around having a sister – no doubt you were trying to get your head around the shit of being a father twice over with a woman who couldn’t cope.

And what was your response to the situation – a year or so later you fucked off and flew around the world ON YOUR FUCKING OWN! MY dear mother held things together -and you – YOU FUCKING COWARD blame post-natal depression for her death.

WELL I FUCKING BLAME YOU! AND YOU LET ME CARRY THAT»» ALL THE TIME people kept telling me “it’s not your fault” and “you must never feel it is your fault” I hope you know what message I was taking – and oh how you let me. So then about twenty years to late you say to me these words “would you like to talk about your mother, would it help? I’ve talked about her with Saskia you know?”

JESUS CHRIST – that takes the biscuit – talk about adding insult to injury…

FUCK you FATHER – and all you call FAMILY – I want fuck all to do with any of it… It is all sick and you are the one that made it that way. I hold you and your cowardice responsible.

In the name of ABUSE I declare you nothing to do with me.

05:33 AM | 0 Comments