are you so incompetent you can't even tell your daughter how to heat a pre-cooked pizza?

I've been putting off this one, just because I didn't have time. Rather, I didn't feel like dedicating the time. Like explaining myself once again.

So many of us are labeled this way, huh?

So many of us daughters. So many of us first-borns.

And I hate this phrase. Because it's one to blow us off. When we're rebellious, when we distrust, when we're angry.

This trauma is so normalized, it's a cliche.

"What did your dad do to you? It can't be that bad."

You're right. It's not that bad.

Moreso, I suppose, it's what he didn't do. So I became a father and a husband. I protected them from him.

The worst part is I still crave his affection. His attention. His hugs and smiles.

And I've searched for that in dangerous ways. I've entertained men I shouldn't have. Consented to things I shouldn't have. Because they would give me validation, attention.

But he's gotten better, my dad. I hug him more and he kisses my head. We laugh together.

And then, every so often, I disdain him.

Because from him grew the worst parts of me.

10-4-23