Daddy Issues (Censored)/ There Will Be Blood

I’m angry. ”Bitter” is what I think they call it. And even though I try my best not to think about him, to mentally block him out, to try and waste as little brain activity on him as possible, 100% eradication…not possible.
He still blames his not being around on my mother. Says that she kept me from him. Claims that he tried everything to be a part of my life. He wrote letters, bought presents, sent cards but not once were his efforts rewarded with anything but a granite like silence. And then once my mother and I left England for the States, that was it. He didn’t know where or even how to start looking for us.
Do I believe him?
Maybe.
Do I care…?
He’s around you know. Has been for more than six months. I haven’t seen him once. Haven’t even gotten as much as a fucking phone call. And you see, this time, there is no excuse. Not when he sits down and has coffee with my uncle. Not when I’m in touch with Peter, Paul, Patrick and Victoria. Not when I’m right here, so close that he could reach out and touch me. No, there aren’t any excuses. Not this time.
I guess I do.
And so what does it all boil down to? What do the signs say…?
I wrote a story about killing my father once. I stabbed him to death with a cleaver knife. Licked the blood off of the blade when I was done…pretty dark stuff, even for me.
Fucking allergies. They have me sniffling and sneezing and goin’ through clean hankies by the minute. White mucus means that your fine right?
He doesn’t want me. Couldn’t give a damn. Is more concerned with trying to get my Mom back than he is with cultivating a relationship with me. There are a lot of things that I could say to that, none of which are nice. I, however, have decided not to be such an exhibitionist on this. Although even as I write of my decision not to be such a drama queen, I at the same time realize that the whole purpose of this is to write out my issues. I’m always talking about how my writing is first and foremost, even before my responsibility to use it for the “betterment of society” (does that sound as pompous as I think it does?), a way for me to vent. A form of therapy. So why deny myself of that…?
Why indeed.
I’m gonna try this again. And this time, there will be blood.