i can kinda understand why i didn’t used to express how i was feeling. because i was traumatized by my
own “father.” days extending to months, to years have i heard my father shout at me, harshly asserting that i am to blame for his mishaps, his key gone missing, so he grabbed me by the neck, demanding where it was, and just the cars he used to go to work. he went through several cars. most of them were second-hand cars and usually had issues going on from the inside of them and outside like a front or rear, left or right tire flattened and i was to blame; or the radiator possibly overheating; a tail light that’s suddenly stopped lighting up, or registration went missing not being in the glove compartment of the car, a small dent in the bumper or the trunk, all the cars he “owned”; but were really under my mother’s care, he would assume it was me who was responsible for these things; and it was excruciatingly painful to register that it was my fault; considering i had never been around for this; what would i do messing with his stuff? why would i do that, i had no business there; no desire to hurt my dad; but he did me; he did it to me for while, suffocated me once, hastily confronted me and threatened to harm me, gaslighted me in an attempt for his demented attempt to victimize me, for three plus years, and he has done it and expressed fake apologies so thin i wanted to kill him; but even so, i repressed these feelings of malice; i didn’t permit myself to be angry; because i was afraid of what he might do to me; the perilously crippling images of him creeping up from behind me and killing me for what i had never done; pronouncing his rage wagging his domineering finger at me to further punish me with accusations, which were delusional, and incapable of being rationalized no matter how many times my mother foolishly urged me to speak to him to understand his train of thought; it remained the same and i once again repress my anger and irate dissatisfaction of believing anyone could come to a peaceful disclosure with this evil man, and i again prohibited the power of my humaneness; by allowing things to be, and i rarely mentioned a word of my hidden tears, my covert and sometimes overt outbursts of rage, my faint willingness to scream all of this pain away; to adjust to the absolute satisfying release of suicide, so then, i would not have to endure this pain anymore; the idea of my suicide in itself was the latter satisfying than coercing my will or others making me think any sort of familial connection between my father, or just this family could ever exist; that i have no sense of family, and i do not believe “family is everything” because if there is no relationship that exists, no bond that has been developed and has grown, then my “everything” is nothing; if its people who devalue and repudiate the validity of my circumstances; they shame me, for this happening; these disjointed, nightmarish, idealistic experiences of this happening; my happenings and they could never hope to understand because there is so much delusional faith i, or anyone else could assign to family being “everything” being that part of that “family”, that “blood” has caused you pain and misery; and has repudiated you for feelings; but how could they show, how could i ‘show them’, my feelings, if i was afraid to? i was taught to fear my father; and from that aspect; from his violently confronting me for a large portion of my life, from hearing the vexing, cyclical squabbles between my
father and my mother, i learned helplessness, i learned hopelessness, i became this illness of post traumatic stress; and for the illness to be devalued, and imposed onto me that these things do not exist, do not compel me to talk to “family”, or most of anyone about these instances; and it has been this way since my years post-middle school, and the feelings exist now, and i understand a lot more than i once did, but i have my unflinching cynical, qualms about “seeing” anyone, or any longer taking medicine to halt my ongoing thoughts that are hastily repetitive; so much that i feel like someone else is is living this life; that these repetitive thoughts and experiences are from someone else outside of me, and i often look at myself sometimes, derealizing that i am not here, as if i already killed myself and had been reborn living this life again as a morose corpse.
My name’s Patrick. I’m a writer. I’ve been writing poetry since my junior year of high school. I’m currently attending SUNY New Paltz University majoring in English to earn a BFA in English with Creative Writing. I want to search for a career in being a Creative Writing professor.