and we'll never be afraid again
Monday, May 14th, 2012 06:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erikaMy dad likes me best with my hair down.
He likes me in nice clothes, the ones I typically wear now—the dresses, the skirts, the well fitted shirts.
He prefers me to wear makeup, and heels, and earrings, and I'd assume lipstick if I ever wore that, but I don't.
He doesn't like short hair. He prefers women to watch their weight.
He likes things to be in their place. He wants to be shown respect.
When I was younger, I was such a daddy's girl. I hated being left home, for obvious reasons, so a lot of the time in the spring & fall, my dad would take me to soccer games that he was refereeing. I idolized him so much I became a soccer referee when I was 9 years old.
I had long hair until I got old enough to argue for short hair, and honestly, the long hair was probably a better idea, because I didn't know how to handle the curls, and it really didn't help that no one else I knew had curly hair. Except my dad, but his was way shorter, and mine just kind of looked like a mushroom, or distinctly triangular, until I learnt how to get it under control.
I'm the only one of the four kids my parents have that would never pass for white, under any light, no matter how little sun I get. Technically we're all tercero, octaroon, 1/8th Black & 1/2 Latino/a, but I'm the only one that really looks like it.
I'm the only one who's picked up smoking, too, like both my parents do. It's ironic, because when I was younger, I used to tear up their cigarettes, throw them in the bathroom trash so they'd be too disgusted to fish them back out.
That's not the only thing that's ironic.
So yesterday, I'm lying on the grass in the back yard, and it's a little past midnight, not that I knew that at the time, but I asked my brother to get my phone, because I wanted to talk to Chance.
(I felt like he was the only one who would understand how I felt, and wouldn't argue with me too much.)
I was mostly done crying by that point, but— I'm still worn out, I'm tired, and I'm just burnt out.
My dad was burnt out once, and like Icarus, has fallen into the ocean, but never drowned, just swims along, seemingly content to never fly again. 12 years of ABD so you think he'd have a little persistence, but the man never taught me how to persevere.
He didn't teach me much of anything, to be honest, except how to duck.
He has flashes of anger; I could never blame him for that. His approach to how he 'handles' it could be better, I must admit.
I could blame him for breaking my door down; that would be fair, since he actually did that. Yesterday, before the crying and the back yard. I could also blame him for bellowing in my face, so worked up that he spit on me, because he did that too.
I'll settle for blaming myself for making a snide comment about never getting any fucking time in the bathroom and then ignoring him which apparently enraged him enough that he broke my door down. I mean, obviously, that's my fault. I'm still having trouble blaming myself enough that his response makes any kind of logical sense, but have no fear, I'm adept at shifting the shit so it all hits me.
(What fan, I ask you, is necessary? Much faster to clean me off, or just leave me covered, I don't really care anymore.)
And after that, after Javier appeared in the hallway outside my room because at this point I'm screaming back, and my mom shows up, and I start screaming when people touch me, he still comes after me, forces me out into the backyard because I'm just trying to get away from him, down onto the ground, crying, begging him to leave me alone.
It's weird, when I flip out like that, part of me is entirely aware that I'm flipping out, just watching me lose it. I mean, you can talk all about disassociation, or being triggered, yeah, I know intimately what those are, but doing it leaves a slimy taste in my mouth, like I've been acting, like I'm just pretending to be upset.
Later, after I get off the phone, I end up talking to my mother, and as I'm leaving with the admonition to be polite settling into my bones, she says one last thing, she says "Try not to hold a grudge."
I snarl back, because if any tone of my voice can be called a snarl, this definitely qualifies: "Good luck with that one."
I know fights aren't really given a scorecard, or refereed—there aren't points drawn up, or awards handed out——but if there were, I'm 99.9% certain that my fucking father never thought to apologize to my brother's girlfriend, who had the misfortune to be in the house when he lost his shit——and I did, so. Fuck you, Dad.
He likes me in nice clothes, the ones I typically wear now—the dresses, the skirts, the well fitted shirts.
He prefers me to wear makeup, and heels, and earrings, and I'd assume lipstick if I ever wore that, but I don't.
He doesn't like short hair. He prefers women to watch their weight.
He likes things to be in their place. He wants to be shown respect.
When I was younger, I was such a daddy's girl. I hated being left home, for obvious reasons, so a lot of the time in the spring & fall, my dad would take me to soccer games that he was refereeing. I idolized him so much I became a soccer referee when I was 9 years old.
I had long hair until I got old enough to argue for short hair, and honestly, the long hair was probably a better idea, because I didn't know how to handle the curls, and it really didn't help that no one else I knew had curly hair. Except my dad, but his was way shorter, and mine just kind of looked like a mushroom, or distinctly triangular, until I learnt how to get it under control.
I'm the only one of the four kids my parents have that would never pass for white, under any light, no matter how little sun I get. Technically we're all tercero, octaroon, 1/8th Black & 1/2 Latino/a, but I'm the only one that really looks like it.
I'm the only one who's picked up smoking, too, like both my parents do. It's ironic, because when I was younger, I used to tear up their cigarettes, throw them in the bathroom trash so they'd be too disgusted to fish them back out.
That's not the only thing that's ironic.
So yesterday, I'm lying on the grass in the back yard, and it's a little past midnight, not that I knew that at the time, but I asked my brother to get my phone, because I wanted to talk to Chance.
(I felt like he was the only one who would understand how I felt, and wouldn't argue with me too much.)
I was mostly done crying by that point, but— I'm still worn out, I'm tired, and I'm just burnt out.
My dad was burnt out once, and like Icarus, has fallen into the ocean, but never drowned, just swims along, seemingly content to never fly again. 12 years of ABD so you think he'd have a little persistence, but the man never taught me how to persevere.
He didn't teach me much of anything, to be honest, except how to duck.
He has flashes of anger; I could never blame him for that. His approach to how he 'handles' it could be better, I must admit.
I could blame him for breaking my door down; that would be fair, since he actually did that. Yesterday, before the crying and the back yard. I could also blame him for bellowing in my face, so worked up that he spit on me, because he did that too.
I'll settle for blaming myself for making a snide comment about never getting any fucking time in the bathroom and then ignoring him which apparently enraged him enough that he broke my door down. I mean, obviously, that's my fault. I'm still having trouble blaming myself enough that his response makes any kind of logical sense, but have no fear, I'm adept at shifting the shit so it all hits me.
(What fan, I ask you, is necessary? Much faster to clean me off, or just leave me covered, I don't really care anymore.)
And after that, after Javier appeared in the hallway outside my room because at this point I'm screaming back, and my mom shows up, and I start screaming when people touch me, he still comes after me, forces me out into the backyard because I'm just trying to get away from him, down onto the ground, crying, begging him to leave me alone.
It's weird, when I flip out like that, part of me is entirely aware that I'm flipping out, just watching me lose it. I mean, you can talk all about disassociation, or being triggered, yeah, I know intimately what those are, but doing it leaves a slimy taste in my mouth, like I've been acting, like I'm just pretending to be upset.
Later, after I get off the phone, I end up talking to my mother, and as I'm leaving with the admonition to be polite settling into my bones, she says one last thing, she says "Try not to hold a grudge."
I snarl back, because if any tone of my voice can be called a snarl, this definitely qualifies: "Good luck with that one."
I know fights aren't really given a scorecard, or refereed—there aren't points drawn up, or awards handed out——but if there were, I'm 99.9% certain that my fucking father never thought to apologize to my brother's girlfriend, who had the misfortune to be in the house when he lost his shit——and I did, so. Fuck you, Dad.
(This would be easier if I were angry.
I'm never really angry.
I'd make a bad Hulk.)
I'm never really angry.
I'd make a bad Hulk.)
