I hate you. I am not saying that the way a little kid whines when they don’t get their ice cream or are not allowed to stay up for five more minutes. I hate you. I hate that a part of you is trapped inside of my DNA. I would bleed it out if I could. I would scratch my flesh to pieces in order to escape a future where I turn out anything like you.
It scares me to know someone who I used to cuddle with on the couch, someone who used to whisk me away on Florida vacations, could end up turning into someone who makes me flinch when they enter a room, someone I cower from when they speak.
It’s even scarier to know you have always been that monster. I just couldn’t see it for the first few decades of my life because you were good at pretending. I bought your act for a long time and it sickens me that so many of your family members still believe it. It’s like a little kid in denial, 99% sure Santa Claus is a fake but wanting to cling onto the version of reality that is easier for them to digest. They don’t want to admit their little boy is an addict, an alcoholic, an abuser. They can keep on pretending because they were never stuck under the same roof as you for as long as I have been. They can keep on pretending because your behavior barely impacts them.
But it has impacted me.
You can swear that you gave me the best life possible. You can act like feeding and clothing me and paying for my education were acts worthy of eternal devotion. But I am not that gullible. I am not going to stay in a toxic situation because you threw some money around. (I know that is a controversial point. I have been told by plenty of people that I am an ungrateful bitch for walking away after you paid for my upbringing. While I appreciate everything you gave me over the years, unfortunately, my love cannot be bought.)
Every memory of you is a bad one. When I think of you, I think of fists through doors and broken glass. I remember watching you stumble home from bars, without your car, reeking of Jack. I remember finding weed stuffed into the couch cushions. I remember you belittling the deaths of my family members, acting as if they deserved to die when really that role belonged to you.
I don’t want to be anything like you. But I am. I am selfish like you. I am obsessive like you. I am only out for myself — just like you.
You know how I was able to curse you out from your hospital bed? You know how I was able to block your number and feel freedom instead of regret? I get that from you. The funny part is that you are getting screwed over by your own DNA.