I want to dissect him, like a leech

When I wake up, I think it’s all over. I have recovered, I am happy. I watch inspirational TED talks, I read blogs and books on how to get past this, I enjoy the sun and I practice good mood. I surround myself with loving people and I do things for fun. I go through the day, thinking – there, I did it. Until the evening rolls around. I get tired, and boom – dark thoughts are back in my head. The image of my father is talking again, looking at me again, judging me again. How long will it take me, what else can I do? Is there no ending of this dreadful state? What else can I do to combat it, to channel it out? I know. I need to let it be, let is seep out through my pores, day after day, emotion after emotion. Tonight, it’s anger and curiosity.

I’m angry. I want to dissect him, like a leech. I’m curious. I want to study his intestines, I want to know why he did what he did. I want to weigh his brain, I want to take out all his teeth and look at them under a microscope. Am I sick for imagining these things? Perhaps. But boy, it gets me satisfied thinking of him being cut open, looking at his secrets, at the way his head works. My cousin is sending me his books – can’t wait to read them, to study his subconscious, to see why he sucked on to me, like a leech, why he drained all the happiness out of me, his little girl. I want to know why my wounds still bleed, years after. I want to know how to wipe his poison clean from my system, how to rejuvenate and how to let the blood stop – what magic I have to have to do it.

Was it his childhood? Was he beaten, ignored, never hugged, never loved? What had to be done to him to cause him to lose his humanity? At what age did it happen? Did he get to be a happy kid, or was he never destined to be one? Are his genes at fault, his DNA blueprint? But if this was true, how come every 3^rd girl and every 8^th boy is being sexually abused in US? And more in other countries? What is it that we do wrong as a society to raise our boys into monsters? How can we prevent it? Put on lab coats and dissect every pedophile’s thought? Are we looking perhaps in the wrong place? I find myself standing in my thoughts, imaginary lab worker, with a scalpel in my hand, and my father pinned to the wall. Do I want to cut him open? I turn to him. I see fear in his eyes. I know he is afraid of me, I know he fears my retaliation. He is getting older and weaker, I am getting healthier and stronger. He has lost all his teeth, his mouth gapes at me, naked. His head bald. His body white, shriveled. A gigantic leech. Primitive. Pitiful. No, I don’t want to cut into his flesh the way he cut into mine. It won’t bring me happiness, only more sadness. I want to be happy. To overcome this pain, to dive into research and find patterns, find the cure for the world, something to turn this sad statistic around.

I have to go to sleep now, to wake up tomorrow, to a new day. To keep making it, day after day, until it’s over.