I was tearing off the border when underneath the sticky squares I used stayed attached to the walls. I knew they were going to need some elbow grease so I used a putty knife. They were not as easy to remove as I hoped. Some popped right off but most took some muscle.
Being in the bathroom with the walls bare, the shower emptied, the floor stuff removed and now the border stickies being scraped off caused a feeling of emptiness. It was weird because in the pit of my stomach was this feeling of sadness.
And then was the sensation of crying.
And then my eyes started to tear.
What was I crying about?
I'm not sure.
Part of me felt like I was saying good-bye to the last memory of my Dad. As if the sexual abuse memory was the last feeling I had for him. If I search my past, I think this might be true. I wanted to be close to my Dad but the only way to be close to him was through physical or sexual abuse. Even when he stopped drinking there was never a way to get close to him.
He called me his pal. We'd share a can of Mug root beer. I'd come over to his place and we'd sit at the kitchen table and talk. We worked at the same company for the same part-time job but different shifts and we'd chat a bit before I went home. Sometimes we'd go fishing together. But I never felt close to him.
There's a lot to cry over with that man. I still haven't cried over the last three years before he died. He stopped talking to me. For no reason. Or at least no reason he ever told me. And when he did die, I wasn't mentioned in the obituary.
Can you believe that?????
I have a birth certificate with his name on it but I'm not listed in his obituary.
Too bad the perpetrator's private part doesn't leave a stamp on my private part to identify them. All six of them would be identified and maybe then I would give myself permission to cry.
