Today is my dad’s birthday.
He’d be 68 if he were still alive.
I don’t feel an ounce of sadness today.
Rather I am a ball of pensive energy.
Anxious, restless, alert.
He was a witness for the defense, sworn to testify against me at the trial against my abuser.
Estranged from me most of my life, once I left.
Never accepting of any responsibility to his part of my destroyed childhood.
Dead when I was 25, nothing resolved.
No closure. No justice.
Just resentment and anger. Rage like.
Last night I dreamt of words, not images.
I dreamt of illness and struggle.
Of chaos and confusion.
Last night P T S D screamed in my head.
He doesn’t deserve this hold over me.
Yet he has it because he is my father.
A man I loved with all my being, who terrified me as a child.
The damage he has done is extreme.
The wounds near impossible to heal.
I often long for the days when his birthday was just a date on a calendar.
No emotions, barely an acknowledgment.
Just sweet dissociation.