I always thought my scars were invisible or silent. Until they were prodded, and out it would come. That quiet rage waiting for someone to turn on the blender.
An open wound would appear, and the feelings suppressed from years of gaslighting would rise to the surface.
When I was old enough I decided I no longer wanted to see my fathers face, yet I searched for it in boyfriends. In a love that needed problem solving.
My mother was the calm one, I guess she balanced the scales but I tipped anyway because I felt her pain for having to.
I still blame my sharp tongue on him when I know I shouldn’t, or my impatience or the fact I can turn away so easily to avoid being hurt. I look at my own children, my ‘why’, and so I wonder ‘how’.
Truth is, I don’t blame him because I understand he had his own troubles, I understand he turned to certain things and his shoulder turned with it.
Sometimes when I look in the mirror I see his chin on my face, my kids have the same chin too.
I will never not care about him.
When I drive past his house I always look in, I wonder if there’s a picture hanging up on his wall. Not of me, I know there wont be , but just of anything and I hope there is.
Forgiving doesn’t mean reconnecting, I’ve unpicked too much over the years and I’m reweaving new fabrics. I know there are many of you in the same boat, your kindness will never be mistaken for weakness.
There is nothing stronger than being the person you needed all those years ago.
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