Hi. I mentioned in a few other places that my father was ill for many years and made growing up a difficult task for me. Well many of the the things my Father said and thought of me and Said to me were lies; complete fabrications. This man was supposed to love me and teach me to become an adult and thought I was nothing more than a female dog in heat. He left nasty messages about when I should return home from my late shift in the red-light-districts and give signs of life to my poor worried family - him. He described the loving person that is now (19 years later) my chouette as my prositution broker
and so on.
day after day
my answering machine tape full.
You do not know how much I cried. Maybe I was this nasty horrible person disgusied and someday everyone would know. Maybe I would be as shunned and rejected as a cegep and then university student like I was in high school - because everyone knew this truth. -not that one or two people were so insulted by my father when they called me and were afraid-
I know about how it is to hate your very existance. I have prayed everynight for years -since i was younger than my daughter- to be taken away from this life. I though Cinderella and snow-white were lucky girls.
It still hurts. sorry.
But it was all from the outside. No one knew the pain I was in and I did not know how to express it. I was ashamed of it. I was nearly caught once or twice by good teachers, and learned to hide better!!! I became mediocre.
that was then. That was them. I learned that I had to get to know the person I am. I learned not to focus on those few words. I have gone over every tone, every sylable, every cut and scar. It was like picking at a scab...
I never saw myself as being to exgient ... I hid everything but the smile and caring face. I hid everything but the performing and slightly-ambitious good-girl. I accepted nothing nothing but perfect and made sure my image and message was perfectly understood- good-girl. It was not being being hard, it was protection. It was a mask i had to have like ... lipstick.
but since, I have had time to go over these hurts. And I know these pains do not make me a better person. I am not a that dog nor street worker. I know my father was a sick confused man that scared the bejeges out of everyone whose live he touched. I know that I had to learn what makes a person important and I had to discover that in me.
So M-o-3 you know what hurts and what makes each day difficult.
but...
What makes you you a person?