Everyone is asleep. Only two nurses are awake in the corridor, keeping watch over us. I can’t sleep. Why? I constantly talk in my mind, gathering words to write. The silence of the night is broken by the sound of my typing on the keyboard. Searching for words disturbs my sleep.
I remember each moment when I first and last spoke out against my father. Even then, I chose soft words carefully and fearfully. I told him that his children needed him and that his endless drinking was taking our father away from us. But really, what can you lose that you never had?! However, even the chance of having a father in the future was slipping away. I begged him to agree to treatment and to live for us. I told him that drinking was taking him away from us. He, with an ironic and mocking look, told me how dare a little brat like me speak up. His face said, “What a smartass this snotty kid thinks they are, and how did it happen that I, the father, am being taught a lesson by my own child?”
I even read disgust in his face. Disgust towards his own child, who was begging for a father. Perhaps he was hurt that I told him he was sick and needed help, but disgust towards me? What did I do to deserve that?
From the window of my room, I can see a tree.
“Do you notice this tree?” a nurse asked me one day. That was when I realized I perceived the tree for the first time. Before then, I hadn’t even noticed the huge tree and its branches, which were so close to the window, they covered the entire space. That’s when I started looking at it. Numbed by depression, I was satisfied just by noticing the tree. I glanced at it listlessly and immediately looked away.
Since then, looking at the tree has become a morning ritual. I don’t know why, but watching its leaves unfold again a tiny connection to the world. Weeks ago, it only had red buds. First, pink petals peeked out from these buds. It seemed imperceptible, but the red buds gradually brightened. A week later, parts of the pink petals turned into blossoming flowers, announcing the inevitable arrival of spring. I stand and watch this tree. In the morning, it’s pink and hopeful; at night, it looks snow-covered and brings sadness. This tree seems to have two faces for me. But it’s okay, I still need a little hope, and I trust its flowers. But this hope quickly disappears when the usual darkness settles in my heart and weighs down my leg muscles. Thoughts and images come and don’t stop. Memories never end. No tranquilizer, no comfort…
That morning, I went into the smoking room. The sun rises from this side. Miraculously, I noticed the sun. Not only did I notice the sun, but the corners of my mouth also moved, and I managed to smile slightly. From my heart, I spontaneously uttered:
“Sun, rise, rise, don’t hide behind the hills…”
And the words stopped again. That darkness came so quickly that by the time I left the smoking room, I was barely dragging my feet back to the room. Oh, blessed sun, at least give me one minute of joy…
I hear my father’s voice, his hateful swearing, humiliating and oppressive phrases, merciless yelling, and the strength of his voice sends shivers down my spine. Come, memories, you can’t scare me, remind me of whatever you want. Sleepless, I still stand and face you bravely. Bring whatever you want, anger, aggression, the urge to smash dishes, the urge to punch walls, the desperate desire to shout into the grave, “What did I do to you, do you even know what I am going through now?” I will face you firmly without feeling guilty. I won’t feel guilty for speaking the truth and feeling my emotions.
Though they tried hard to silence me with guilt throughout my childhood. “You should love your father as he is,” that phrase numbed all my pain and desire to say, “Father, you hurt me.” No, the adults just slapped a pretty sticker over my wounds as if nothing had happened, and it was just a pretty tattoo of a colorful butterfly. They silenced me so I wouldn’t say that an abuser is an abuser. They forced me to turn the abuser into just a strange man and to love this strange man as a father because, as a child, I was obligated to do so.
What did you want from me, adults, why did you split my psyche, making me love my own abuser? You made me carry love and fear simultaneously and stuffed disgust into the corners of my mind. You stuffed my true feelings so deeply that I spent years not knowing if they even still existed somewhere in my head.
Who asked you what I would feel? What did it matter to you how I felt? Who gave you the right to dictate what I should feel towards my parents? Who did you think you were, changing my genuine feelings into fake, kind sentiments? Disgust – into love, sadness – into joy, liveliness – into shyness, dissatisfaction – into a compliant nature, joyfulness – into shame…
Who asked you to change me? You taught me to be a good girl constantly and silenced my true self. You made me live a double life and didn’t give me the chance to know myself. Do you even know me? I don’t think you deserve to meet me now. You squandered your chance!!
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