father figures

i have this reoccurring dream of my dad. it escalates with intensity each time. i wish it was with pleasant imagery — him walking me down the aisle, like i had the pleasure of witnessing recently as a maid of honor. i wish it was something as simple as him giving me a warm embrace, kissing my forehead, and telling me that he knows i’m special and that my happiness is important to him. 

instead, my dream is painful, disturbing, and disruptive to my logical tranquillity. 

the sequence of nightmares have always involved him hunting me. sometimes i’m with a group of people. sometimes i’m alone. i’m always trying to avoid him. i’m usually prepared to defend myself verbally and physically. the most recent hunt was more dramatic and resonated the most. he had used every source of global surveillance possible to hunt me and he succeeded and i found myself startled in my sleep to see him sitting feet away from me. he was in disguise and speaking words to me that made me feel as though satan had possessed the man that aided in my birth. in my sleep, my father embodied every characteristic that was synonymous with the anti-christ. 

he hurt me. he cut my hand with the sharpest blade i had ever seen and i bled. 

i felt it in my sleep and it transcended.  

i awoke from this torment and didn’t know how to feel. for years, i’ve battled with where i stand on my relationship with my father. at times, i feel offensive and bold. my attitude is “fuck him. he can fuck off. he can die.” other times, i feel defensive and ready to protect myself but still very respective of the fact that he’s my father. i wish the best for him and hold on to the glimmer of hope. i’d humble my feelings in an attempt to embrace him, if that opportunity presented itself. yet, in both circumstances, i am always on guard.

my father is someone that i try to not think about. i try to feel numb towards him. i try to be indifferent. i try to be strong. i try to wish him well. i try to imagine what i’ll do when i see him again. i try to prepare myself for what he might say & do. i try to not cry when i think about him. it’s a constant battle that might not go away.

i wish my father respected me. i wish my father didn’t physically abuse me as a child. i wish my father didn’t verbally abuse me an young woman. i wish my memories of my father didn’t cause my emotions to whirl randomly. i wish there was a way to be over it but still human about it. i wish there was an end to the story while i’m still alive. 

i love him and that hurts me. 

i hate him and that hurts me.

i wish this father figure didn’t have the ability to taunt me anymore. figuratively or emotionally. i’m grateful in some way. this frustration and experience has caused me to become a complex person — someone who doesn’t tolerate bullshit; someone who values herself; someone who has struggled with identity; someone who can step outside herself to imagine the perspective of others; someone who is empathetic; someone who is apathetic; someone who’s not afraid to fight; someone who knows how to love hard. 


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