I’ve begun the process of mourning you; the Daddy I thought I had. The protracted inquest takes place weekly in a therapist’s office.
Yesterday she asked me about the times I used to go and fetch you from the pubs, and it felt as if was giving part of us away, betraying you by admitting my pain.
And she gave me nothing to replace you with. She couldn’t fucking hold me and tell me that it would be ok. She couldn’t give me a placebo Daddy to tide me over while I dismantle you, and mourn the dismantled you.
And once I’ve taken a scalpel to you, laid your entrails alongside your broken, hollowed-out corpse, and once I’ve knelt beside you and chanted a litany for the death of you, and once I’ve lit the candle for my unfulfilled infant needs, what do I do then?
And what would be the point? I only ever did anything for you, so that you could look at me. Just so that you could fucking look at me.
Because the truth, Daddy, is that I won’t be able to do anything, because I’ll be asbroken, as hollowed-out as you. And I’ll be left with this claustrophobic, all-encompassing, numbing emptiness, nothingness. Because, who am I without you? Who am I if I am not Daddy’s little girl?
And then how do I go through the day, dragging two empty corpses around with me?
Or do I do what I’m doing now? Try to provide the corpses with some substance, some meaning by coolly and scientifically recording each scalpel-stroke. I might have to murder you, and consequently myself, slowly and excruciatingly, but at least I’ll be able to fucking write.
(The Letters from Selves Pas(t)sed series is drawn from writing created over 10 years ago. I’ve decided to include them as they create context for my journey. Keeping in mind where I come from helps me measure where I am and where I’m going.)