Am I mad? Perhaps a little. Not mad that he died, (that I’m just plain fucking bummed out about,) but mad of how he lived. I’m mad that he didn’t take better care of himself. I mad that he didn’t believe that he was worth more... worth a life worthy of getting out of bed every every afternoon. Worth happiness and free of daily suffering from the mental anguish that is depression. Fuck you depression. Why did you creep into the life of an innocent man with love to give and make him feel like a piece of shit? Back the fuck off and go make yourself miserable. Yes, my father may not have taken the best care of himself, but he did the best he could under the unlivable circumstances you poured upon him. And fuck you, so sincerely & from the bottom of my heart, for that.
The traumatic childhood that graced itself upon my father was unfortunate. I often had to stop him from revealing the stories that sent him from one foster home to the next because I could feel my heart start to burn. It was a piercing sharp pain full of devastation and rage. At times I wanted to find the people who treated him so poorly and literally beat the entire living shit out of them. It would’ve been a brutal scene, but one that was well deserved as far as I’m concerned. Dropping a child into an outhouse hole & leaving him there? Sexual molestation? Disgusting pigs. -- Who wouldn’t feel worthless after that? Or at least a little fucked up, (for all those high and mighty people who handle any situation with the grace of a damn ballerina.)
That’s an awful start to a life. No love, trust or consistency. Prefect breeding ground for a life based on the presumption that you don’t deserve happiness. But you did Daddy, just as much as I or any good-hearted person does. And I would’ve given anything to hand Happiness to you on a silver platter. But depression is one sneaky son-of-a-bitch.
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