Forgiving my Father (free-write)

Just a free write that I plan to place inside my novel.

The many times I've tried to forgive my Father.

How many times have I sat and pondered whether or not I should be 'forgiving,' my father for what he did in the past. They're our past lives, right? I always have the quote pop into my head 'forgive but not forget,' but you see, the thing with that is, how many times are you supposed to forgive someone, until your dead?

That's why I called the cops�"it wasn't like I wanted the abuse and I sure as hell know my mother didn't deserve a single damn second of it, yet she put up with it her whole life because of us kids and his scare tactics, tormenting, nearly putting you in rehabilitation because you're scared to function as a normal being because touching a door handle left 'hand grease,' on his just polished door knobs. Or that he doesn't want you around his sister because she's 'not a good influence,' seriously destroying the possibility of any relationship or memories.

I should have more than just a few and I blame him for the loss of memories with my siblings. It's because we were scared, we couldn't even interact the way we wanted with one another. And we all had those damn lectures about 'touching the door or walls,' or 'putting water in your hair for school,' or 'having friends knock on the door, during summer breaks,' and God forbid if 'the church,' comes to your door because 'their a cult,' yet they've helped us back then with more than you have in your entire life. When I was sick, I had blessings, when I needed to get away from home with mom, there was a church and activities.

Those were the best memories in Las Vegas�"that and my damn friends. But the rest of it was nothing less than a nightmare. My friends remember him, yelling at them for knocking on the door. They'll never forget him walking outside in his tighty whities disrespecting them (they're just kids) and yelling about wanting HIS daughter to have friends.

The lectures when small things like this lasted hours and they never made sense. It went from 'you're learning to be a slob like these kids here,” he always talked like Romanian education was far better. But the subject would switch to 'his life,' and 'how he was cool when he did this or that,' it was like he needed anybody to listen, he was the kid and if we didn't look him in the eyes because this wasn't story time to him, it was a lecture even if it was just about himself.

And if he answered a question, you might as well have a pitch fork because if it wasn't perfect you were talking back and would suffer the consequences for being 'too loud,' or 'too quiet,' which was disrespectful as well.

This s**t was never ending... Half the time mom didn't know what was going on because without her jobs and side jobs there wouldn't be warm cloths for snowing mornings and a warm lunch at school. She provided exactly what a mother was supposed to provide...

You know...

She was always there and helped me feel safe. It was the only time that monster would leave me alone. Of course he didn't want her to know how much he picked on us kids. The master manipulator, the puppet master�"the one thing he was actually good at in this life. He even fools hospitals therapists and brags about how 'stupid,' the doctor's they are and they 'he won't have another idiot tell him what's wrong with him because he doesn't need help.' The joys of growing up with that narcissist controlling a*****e takes it's toll on you, even at 26-years-old.

So, he messages me the other day and asks me to come visit him at my sisters. And I'm sitting here like, I can forgive you but I don't need you to be a part of my life. But at least it motivated me to continue writing “My Mom Married a Monster.”

Author's Note

ignore grammar... Just a free write. I'm open to questions to help this come out in a deeper manner if not already.