It’s not it. My father lives. *Sigh*
Despite my pleas, and Kate’s good thoughts – It’s. Still. Not. Over. *Sigh*
In my last post, the lovely David said:
“Would it seem incredibly insensitive to say I wish he’d just get it the hell over with, so you can start your process, for your sake, because you deserve to be able to grieve and rage and find some closure? It’s like he can’t do *anything* without making it into some form of torture for you.”
I want this the hell over with as well. And I want my father to stop torturing me.
My therapist said that even people who have a warm, loving relationship feel this way when someone in their life is doing the on-again-off-again dance with life that my father is doing.
I saw my father yesterday in the hospital – he’s actually looking healthier. *Sigh* They’ve given him some blood and some IV iron and apart from being old and tired, he’s looking better. *Sigh* So, for now I guess, he lives.
He even asked me how I am (third time this year), and asked about my new playmate and how my packing is going in preparation for moving to my new home. It always messes with my head when he shows a bit of interest in my life.
It’s almost as if the little kid inside (or whoever it is) gets excited and thinks he does love me after all. Then he’ll follow up with a caustic remark, or a vicious look and I’ll realise it’s not true: he doesn’t love me, doesn’t care, never has, never will. It’s so confusing for my small brain.
I started having flashbacks in the hospital yesterday. Just being physically close to my father brought them on. Thankfully they weren’t too bad and I was able to stay present.
A couple of nurses came by yesterday and started telling me what a lovely man my father is, and how funny he is. I know he’s been chatting to the guy in the next bed, who’s also commented on what a hard life my father’s had, and how nice he is. He has had a hard life, but he isn’t nice. Not to me, anyway.
It makes me sick to listen to this stuff. My therapist said it’s not uncommon for child abusers to be the “pillar of the community” publicly, but “save” their nastiness for you in private. It makes me sick.
At the end of my visit yesterday my father wanted me to kiss him good bye. I couldn’t. I felt sick to my stomach. I feel sick like this whenever I have to touch him, or his clothes or anything. Sick just looking at him sometimes. And then I feel guilty because I didn’t kiss him and he was clearly disappointed.
God, this is such a head f***. I’m trying to remember that my therapist said he won’t live forever, even if it feels like it. As David said, could he just get it the hell over with, please?