I never quite know how to start talking about my father. February 1st will be 12 years since he died and I always thought a huge weight would be lifted off of my shoulders once he was gone. It hasn’t happened that way though. Perhaps a part of me felt we could pretend a little less. Maybe finally break the mould of having a good family.
It’s hard to describe how much it hurts when one of the two people in your life who are supposed to protect you instead treat you as a posession to be owned. We couldn’t fight back. We know that now. It doesn’t make things easier though.
I did a lot of doodles this weekend and for one of them what started off as a pair of eyes turned into him. It’s the face my memory remembers. Always angry. Always hurtful.
Time doesn’t always heal wounds. Some last forever