Letters I Will Never Get To Send: Part 1

*trigger warning, may have references to violence*

Dear Dad,

First of all, Fuck you. Now that the niceties are out the way, let’s get back to the reason- I’ve even taken time to address you in this blog.

I’m not writing to you as an upset daughter, just to clarify. I’m writing to you as a parent, and a damn good one at that. I pity you, I really, really do. You and your wife and her poor daughters. I hope they are kept well away from you.

I pity you because I often wonder what must it be like in your head? Do you feel guilt? I often wonder how it feels to have to keep up to the massive pretence, you must have to on a daily basis. That is of course if you haven’t already shown your real colours, to the poor woman and girls that have so naively let you into their lives.

The weight of your lies must play heavily on your mind? Well that is of course going on the basis that you aren’t a psychopath. Between you and me, we know. Don’t we ‘Dad’.
How does a father abuse his power like that? How does he hurt a little girl who loved him? See that’s what I don’t get. I look at my kids just now, tucked in their beds and I still can’t comprehend it. I would take the life of a single person who attempted to hurt as much as a hair on either of their heads.

See what I did there? The hair on their heads. Hair was your thing wasn’t it? Like to wrap it round your hands and it pull on it like a school girl. While you head butt your child? Or bite them? Or try gouge out their eye. Remember any of that? I wonder if your brain does what mine does. Does it block out things you find too traumatic to deal with? Not that my pain, my cries my begging you to stop was traumatic for you right enough. Control freak. It was always about control for you, its why you became more violent and crude with me as I started to develop my own ideas of right and wrong.

I really hope you at least get niggles of what you’ve done. The immensity of the trauma you caused a little girl who looked up to you. Always commenting on how ugly I was and how embarrassed you were of me? Making fun of how I looked then beat me harder for showing?

You know another thing? You know what you really have to make peace with? What you did when my Nana died. You took advantage of a beautiful , caring old ladies dementia and you cut Me and my siblings out. If she would have been of sound mind that would never have happened. That blame doesn’t just sit with you though. It sits with your five brothers. I wonder if your older brothers know what you told me sitting at the kitchen table in November 2008, when you knew the police were on their way to arrest you. You know? That he touched you inappropriately as a child? Or that my Granda beat up My Nana. Was that you trying to validate your own actions?

I remember you when the non uniformed officers were talking to you in the , the night you were arrested. I remember hearing you whimper not to take you out in cuffs. You didn’t want the neighbours to see. I remember you trying to talk as you were escorted out the house. A weak, pathetic almost worth a little ounce of sympathy, sad old man. I watched you whimpering and whining like a bitch that night and couldn’t believe you were the man I spent my life afraid of.

That’s the ‘man’ you are to me today, I use the term, man, loosely. You are anything but a man. Just a pathetic excuse of a human being, who has to live with what he’s done deep down. That’s the solace I get from it all – the fact that you know what a piece of shit you really are. I know you know deep down and you know I know. I forgive you, I forgive you for myself not you. You and everything to do with you dies here at the end of this letter.

Pleasant Nightmares, Old Man,

Yours,

Just a blog.

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