Mar 2014
in his kitchen he asks me
so why are you personally affected?
a friend
a friend was *****
in Charlottetown?
yes
I don't know if I'll ever let him now it was me. I don't know if I want him to know. I'm not completely sure he'd care.
But I want you to know. I don't know why I share these bits of myself with people I barely know. I guess it's the same with performing. If rather sing in a room full of strangers than with friends.
But ****, that's different. That's not something you bring up at grandma's dinner table, let alone the fact that you know what *** is. There's a stigma, and no one can know how scared you felt on that August night.
But he doesn't know. We walked by the spot where it happened just last week. He wanted to sit there, it looked nice. I never want to be near that place again; Charlie's greedy hands entering my motionless body. His hands are so different, I don't want to associate the two. I feel like crying.
Fathers are important. I don't want to be the girl with daddy issues; I'm not. But not having a father growing up is something you can't describe. I think he knows, partially. Divorce is hard, but my dad was never there. And I don't mean physically, because sometimes he was there physically. He just wasn't there. We didn't talk. We didn't do things together. He was idle and I was a child. I had no idea who he was.
And when I went to Mexico, I missed him. And it was one of the first times I truly did. I felt immensely hurt, the kind of hurt that goes past the physical. I felt genuinely unloved and deprived. I yearned so badly for a father's love. I wanted so badly for him to say he was proud of me. For turning out half decent without someone to show me who I was.
See, when he went to Mexico, he brought me back a ceramic, heart shaped box. I admired his efforts, for even thinking of me. Now, when I'm there, my best friend also gets a box for our friend. But it's chosen with specifically her is mind, then lovingly filled with beautiful shells found on the beach. It's so ******* stupid. So ******* stupid. But I don't think my dad would do anything like that for me. And it makes me angry, and it makes me cry. Hell, I'm crying right now. It's so ******* stupid.
Do you think it's stupid? I think it is. I'm crying over a ******* box. But it's not the box, you know? It's not the box.
I don't know what to tell you, James. I'm crying over a box and a boy who touched me almost two years ago. I don't know what to tell you.
so why are you personally affected?
a friend
a friend was *****
in Charlottetown?
yes
I don't know if I'll ever let him now it was me. I don't know if I want him to know. I'm not completely sure he'd care.
But I want you to know. I don't know why I share these bits of myself with people I barely know. I guess it's the same with performing. If rather sing in a room full of strangers than with friends.
But ****, that's different. That's not something you bring up at grandma's dinner table, let alone the fact that you know what *** is. There's a stigma, and no one can know how scared you felt on that August night.
But he doesn't know. We walked by the spot where it happened just last week. He wanted to sit there, it looked nice. I never want to be near that place again; Charlie's greedy hands entering my motionless body. His hands are so different, I don't want to associate the two. I feel like crying.
Fathers are important. I don't want to be the girl with daddy issues; I'm not. But not having a father growing up is something you can't describe. I think he knows, partially. Divorce is hard, but my dad was never there. And I don't mean physically, because sometimes he was there physically. He just wasn't there. We didn't talk. We didn't do things together. He was idle and I was a child. I had no idea who he was.
And when I went to Mexico, I missed him. And it was one of the first times I truly did. I felt immensely hurt, the kind of hurt that goes past the physical. I felt genuinely unloved and deprived. I yearned so badly for a father's love. I wanted so badly for him to say he was proud of me. For turning out half decent without someone to show me who I was.
See, when he went to Mexico, he brought me back a ceramic, heart shaped box. I admired his efforts, for even thinking of me. Now, when I'm there, my best friend also gets a box for our friend. But it's chosen with specifically her is mind, then lovingly filled with beautiful shells found on the beach. It's so ******* stupid. So ******* stupid. But I don't think my dad would do anything like that for me. And it makes me angry, and it makes me cry. Hell, I'm crying right now. It's so ******* stupid.
Do you think it's stupid? I think it is. I'm crying over a ******* box. But it's not the box, you know? It's not the box.
I don't know what to tell you, James. I'm crying over a box and a boy who touched me almost two years ago. I don't know what to tell you.
