Dear Diary,
I see a shadow — one I can't escape. It takes the shape of my father. It scares me. It's like when I'm doing something productive, or about to, I hear a voice yelling at me, telling me I did something wrong. Sometimes it gets to the point where I freeze and stare, as if I've seen a ghost. That might be normal to most folks, but for me, this is still new.
I'm constantly looking at the shadow lurking over me. I don't know what to do. With all the knowledge I have, I still don't know how to shoo it away. The only time I don't see it is when I'm at home doing nothing or helping other people. But when it comes to anything else, it's like I'm scared of being judged by this shadow.
I don't know how to escape. I thought I did, but I didn't. It constantly haunts me, as if I owe it something. And if I were to tell a therapist about it, they'd probably give me antidepressants or diagnose me with some mental disorder I don't believe I have. And even if I did — why would I need them? I didn't need them before, and I won't need them later.
Another thing about this shadow — I know I mentioned this in an earlier chapter, but this shadow is my father. A person who puts me down. I can never do what I want without hearing him behind me, criticizing me. The most recent thing he said to me is that I can't read. I didn't care at first, but as I'm writing this, it hits me — and offends me deeply.
For one, if I can't read, then why am I writing? Why am I taking time out of my day to even acknowledge what you're telling me? You say so much that it pisses me off. No matter what I do or say, nothing changes. When I do what you say, it still doesn't work. It's getting to a point where I want to ask you, "Why am I even your son?" Because most of the time, I feel like your punching bag, waiting to be hit. You genuinely scare me. Sometimes you play the role of a father, but in reality, you're not who you claim to be.
The only reason I still acknowledge you as my father is because of how you used to be — waking up early in the morning, fixing your father's car, and me coming outside to help you. If not that, then we were doing something else together. But now, you and I don't even look in the same direction. You say I changed, but in reality, you changed. I stayed the same.
You paint me as the burden of the family, but in reality, you are now the burden — paying child support, having multiple affairs with your wife, fathering a child with the woman you cheated with, and always broke. And when I call it out, I'm suddenly "out of my mind" or "just a child who doesn't understand."
Don't mistake me for someone out of their mind. I have the mindset of a 19-year-old stuck in a 16-year-old body — a mindset so sharp it could strike a hole through your skull. As dark as that sounds, it's as true as you and me. I'm asking for your opinion. I'm asking for your support. But instead, you manipulate everyone into thinking I've completely changed. I haven't, and I never will. I'm the same person — just with my eyes open now. Thanks to you, I have that ability.
You somehow misused your gift of guidance and used it for fame. I'll give you credit — you did an incredible job painting yourself as someone living in a dream. I wouldn't have the guts to do that, nor would I want to, because of how much you've proven yourself in the worst way.
You truly showed your true colors when you left when I was 10 or 11. We had constant contact the first year, but later you distanced yourself. Our bond drifted apart year after year until now. The only reason I can't fully leave you behind is because, somehow, I still look up to you — but for your flaws, not your advice. Advice I wouldn't use anyway, because I'm not a gigolo, nor a cheater. And also because you're my father — you created me and gave me a personality you didn't get along with at first, but eventually did.
Whenever you want to read this, you can. But for now, I want you to show my sister guidance — without the constant fear of a man lurking, waiting for her to mess up.
60Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ28xMpr4gm8
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