I wish he was dead.

What would I even say? Where would I start?

“Why did you feel you had to come here? What’s up? Tell me about yourself.” The objective, more subjective, third-party eyes looked up at me, full of hope and care. “I’m here to help.”

I just looked at her and let out an overwhelmed laugh. “Um, I’m not even sure where to start!”

It just came out as nervous and uncomfortable laughter. Do I start with Jim? My constant failings in relationships? My poor choices in friends? That boy who ruined me in high school? I don’t even know when the sadness started. My dad? I feel like it began before I can even recall memories. I could tell her what I tell everyone— the vague “I don’t get along well with my parents.” But that never really covers it, does it? How do I get everything out that needs to be said when I’m not even sure what the root of my problem is? Should it be in chronological order? Should I start at one of my first memories with my father? Or talk about the emotional abuse at home? 

I wish he was dead.

I think most of all, I feel lost. Placeless. I don’t belong anywhere. I feel like I used to be an unimaginably happy person, but I don’t remember when. I don’t remember what happened that made me this way. Do I tell her how my mom told me to apologize to Jim for egging him on when he punched me in the face? 

I wish he was dead.

Or how he would yell about me to her, loud enough so I could hear the names he’d call me? Do I tell her that my body image keeps me from trying new things and makes me hate myself? I felt like if I wrote this all down, I’d feel better. But now I’m just mad. I’m mad that I got in trouble for being upset about how they’d treat me. I knew somewhere inside of me that it wasn’t okay for Jim to curse at and about and call cruel names to a nine—year-old girl. 

I wish he was dead.

I knew I wasn’t crazy, even though everything they did told me otherwise. Do I tell her about my lasting insecurities of talking too much and being dramatic, because my mom would tell me she’d “really like to hear the sound of silence” and then continue talking to Jim. And that every time I’d tell her how I was feeling, she’d tell me I was being ridiculous and dramatic or that everything coming out of my mouth was “jabbering” or “blabbering on” about nothing. Do I tell her about my constant need to feel accepted? Like nothing is enough. My own parents don’t even want to know about my day, so why would this person care about my life? Why would anyone? How do I say all I want to do is cry and I don’t know why? How do I forgive them when I hate them. 

I wish he was dead.

I’m never serious about it. I laugh it off— pretend it’s a big joke that I’m actually deeply sad and wounded to a point that I’m not sure I’ll ever really be happy.

Of course, when I’m with people I love, I’m better. My friends are where my joy lives. I love people and animals. When I connect with another human, it’s like actual, tangible magic. I live off of the energy they give me. That’s when I see small glimpses— fragments— of who I know I am. Who I used to be. Maybe? Was I ever really happy or is that just something I tell myself?

Sometimes I really just loathe myself. It can take so long to get ready because I genuinely hate how I look. I hate my body. I hate having to leave my room and know that everyone is going to see me and know how ugly my body is and nobody is ever going to want me. 

I get uncomfortable talking about my problems for too long because I’ve been conditioned to think they don’t matter and nobody cares.

I wish he was dead. He ruined me. He made me angry. He showed me what it’s like to have the worst marriage on Earth. How to pretend you love someone and not even do it well. He’s a liar and a bastard and he took my life away. He took away who I am— who I was. He taught me how to hate, how to get angry, how to feign love, how to truly hurt a person. I’ll never forget those things. The life lessons from a man who was supposed to be my new father. A man who was supposed to show me what being in a committed relationship was like. Well— I guess he did. If that’s love, I don’t want any part of it.

I wish he was dead.

“I’m here to help,” she said

“I’m fine.”