Do we fall far from the tree?
I just wrote a letter to my Dad, a man I have not seen in almost a decade (Except for ten minutes six years ago) I found while writing the letter I missed him, and I cried, and I hated and I loved.
I told him, in the letter, all the things I was proud of, and all those that are on the other side of the coin. I told him that I missed him, that I loved him, and that I wanted to kick the shit out of him.
Now I have to decide if I want to mail the letter or not, do I want him back in my life? Do I want to have that fuck of a man knowing how to find me? He is too old to be a threat anymore, he is weak and small, with bone elbows and knobby knees, but I bet he could still scare me.
I guess I will call my mother tomorrow, get Dad’s address from her again, and mail off the letter this week, and hope that it is warmly received.
I can’t believe how unbelievable depressed this has made me. It hurts bad when you thought you buried all those old feelings away, and then when you pick at the scab they bleed out and stain your nice new pants.
I am afraid that if I do not get in contact now, I never will, I am so close to just writing him off for good, letting him fall by the way side and never giving a rats ass about that fat fuck for as long as God keeps me on this earth. So I guess I should do something, I should try and reach out, I should show him something. Or should I? He knew how to reach me, how to call, how to write to me. Why didn’t he get off his ass and come to me first? Is it pride, is it laziness, or is it just not caring? Will he not care that I wrote him a letter; will he ball it up and toss it out? Fuck! Why am I letting this get to me so badly? Crying gives me a headache, I don’t cry very well anymore. Real men don’t cry, they hide there feelings, right?
I will think about it in the morning, and I will most likely mail the letter.
The Mummer
I told him, in the letter, all the things I was proud of, and all those that are on the other side of the coin. I told him that I missed him, that I loved him, and that I wanted to kick the shit out of him.
Now I have to decide if I want to mail the letter or not, do I want him back in my life? Do I want to have that fuck of a man knowing how to find me? He is too old to be a threat anymore, he is weak and small, with bone elbows and knobby knees, but I bet he could still scare me.
I guess I will call my mother tomorrow, get Dad’s address from her again, and mail off the letter this week, and hope that it is warmly received.
I can’t believe how unbelievable depressed this has made me. It hurts bad when you thought you buried all those old feelings away, and then when you pick at the scab they bleed out and stain your nice new pants.
I am afraid that if I do not get in contact now, I never will, I am so close to just writing him off for good, letting him fall by the way side and never giving a rats ass about that fat fuck for as long as God keeps me on this earth. So I guess I should do something, I should try and reach out, I should show him something. Or should I? He knew how to reach me, how to call, how to write to me. Why didn’t he get off his ass and come to me first? Is it pride, is it laziness, or is it just not caring? Will he not care that I wrote him a letter; will he ball it up and toss it out? Fuck! Why am I letting this get to me so badly? Crying gives me a headache, I don’t cry very well anymore. Real men don’t cry, they hide there feelings, right?
I will think about it in the morning, and I will most likely mail the letter.
The Mummer