Damaged

Damage 

Silence. It was worse than anything I had imagined. The yelling, the questioning, I think I'd prefer that to this. There he sat, reminding me of the tide retreating into itself before the wave, no, tsunami takes form, destroying everything in its path. The silence continued until I thought that it would never end but finally he said, "I'm sorry". He's sorry? For what? He didn't do anything, but maybe that's the point. 

He's sorry he wasn't there when I felt I needed him. 

He's sorry he wasn't there to make sure I didn't go chasing love. 

He's sorry that he wasn't more involved before this all started. 

He's sorry he wasn't there when I felt so alone. 

He's sorry he wasn't there when I made that first slice in my skin. 

He's sorry he wasn't there to stop me. 

"Dad, that's not why I'm telling you this. I just.." 

How do I tell him I am out of options without telling him that he's the last one I choose? That the truth is, I didn't want him to know at all? 

"...don't know what to do anymore. I tried dealing with it, but I feel so far gone." I say, the sentence fading out as if to represent how I have the last few years. More silence. He stares down at the countertop like it holds the answers we've both been looking for. I decide to stare too. I'm not sure how much time passes before he finally decides to ask, "How was I supposed to know?" 

I want to say when your social butterfly was not so social anymore. I want to say that the signs were there, how could you not know? I want to say that if I wasn't so afraid of your judgement, I would have told you myself. But I don't, instead I lie. 

"I don't know" I whisper, glancing down at my hands. It is now that I see the pain in his eyes as he looks at his little girl so lost in sadness and he didn't even notice. 

I want to hug him. I want to tell him it's okay, but I don't think it is. We accept the fact that our parents will damage us, but we do not think about if we will damage our parents. I just did. I'm not sure if there was something I could have done differently. I'm not sure if I should have told him or not. But I am sure that this is better than finding his little girl's body next to an empty bottle of pills. 

The conversation doesn't last much longer. He asks if there is anything he can do. I reply with a list much smaller than he'd be satisfied with, but he accepts it nonetheless. I don't know where we'll go from here, but hopefully it's somewhere less damaging. 

It was you who made me fall in love with writing again, like being locked inside for so long and finally walking out, remembering what I had been missing. The birds and grass and words and phrases, I recall them like I can recall a part of me that I allowed to get stripped away by someone who could not even comprehend its worth. But you, you brought back the spark in my eyes, the skip in my step, the parts of my myself that I thought were lost in my childhood so deep within I had given up on finding them. 

Do you know how much I wanted to find them again? 

I remember staring at black pages and words that would so easily come to mind had vanished. I remember reading books and words that used to spring from the pages would lay flat and meaningless. I remember looking at my piano and asking what is the point, no one will hear it anyway, no one will care. 

Why didn't I care? 

You see with you, I am picking up the pieces that he tore apart and I hate to even mention him but maybe you should know the shattered state I was in when you found me; part of me gone, others ripped, and some I could not even recognize.

It was you who made me fall in love with writing again. I can't explain how but suddenly you came along and I remembered that I love being barefoot and having late night talks about all the things that run though my head instead of pretending they're not there. 

You don't pretend they're not there. 

I think you are more myself than I am because the more I am around you, the more I see who I am, or at least who I used to be. I dreamt for nights on end about getting her back, tossing and turning for hours wondering where I went wrong. This girl that I am is not who I know. This woman I have become is so foreign to me that I do not know her favorite color, much less who she wants to be. This girl that I was, she used to be mine, but you are giving her back to me like you knew her all alone. 

You made me fall in love with writing again. 

For this I can never repay you. 

For this I hope I can be good enough. 

For this I will love you forever. 

How did you do that?

I said the moon was pretty

but you said that I was beautiful

and I think I actually believed you

because now when I see the moon

it is I who feels pretty. 

The mood is a shiny rock, going in circles

and I am so much more