Friday, April 26, 2013

Why did they keep buying me bandaids instead of asking what was wrong?


In an effort to explain how upset my dad makes me feel (drawing a distinction between how I feel and how he behaves) and to explain why I have only seen him once since I moved out (3 months today), I will share a snapshot of one my most accessible traumatic memories (note: this is not even one that stands out in my mind, it's just very blatant)...

August '12:
We were in the car on the way to the outpatients clinic when Dad started yelling. Rather than open the car door, undo my seatbelt and let the gravel swallow me whole, I decided to scratch a section of my leg until he stopped yelling. The more despondent, tearful and vacant I became, the louder he yelled, until he gripped the car seat and turned to face me, bellowing.
20 minutes later, we pulled up at the clinic; my leg bleeding, raw and bloody. I hadn't stopped scratching (he hadn't stopped yelling). My Mum told me how disrespectful I'd been as I limped to my appointment. On the way home, I was once again the naughty, spiteful and rude daughter; rather than the traumatised, sick and distressed one.
If that is love, I want none of it.

“When women scream you wonder what’s wrong with them. When men yell you get afraid about what they’re going to do.” --Unknown