I knew my dad was a predator for a long time.
Maybe predator is not the right term. He is a kind man, afflicted with an empathy I know he has seen mirrored in his daughter. I imagine we, his family, his offspring, we lives who were created by his are somewhat a mystery to him….he’s a mystery to me.
When I finally pieced my puzzle pieces together, after knocking on doors and putting together this big picture of Eglon that made me question everything that I had ever wanted to believe or ever thought I knew….
It was bombs, that took me from me, or knocked the wind out of me or that misalligned an otherwise probably really good compass….but….it happened nonetheless, I’m not dumb, to pretend or try to paint things pretty would to be spitting in my own face, and I’m tired of being spit in the face…..literally and really, please nobody else ever do this thing again….I get it….you were annoyed by me, or ….IDK….but please don’t spit on me.
Anyways. I told my father four years ago, well into the process of being dissected and ripped apart in a whirlwind that was not user friendly, in a story I did not wish to be written into but found myself, nonetheless…”Dad, I’m afraid I’ll never be alright, unless I’m allowed to speak and write freely.”
“Emma….yes, please write, you have an important story to tell.” He told me.
“Yes but add if I am to write about me I will have to write about you and I’m afraid you will hate me if I speak freely about you….”
And he nodded his head and agreed….he would hate me….why he was about to stop speaking to me …again….a thing dad does…..He crossed his arms over his chest and with a flippant nod he said, “Well”….
Cause he knew I wanted him in my life, but that my voice scared him….and what was more important Emma? Cause he was happy to watch me die slowly, so sad for him, as long as I never spoke freely.
Hard lessons, this life…..I love my father. Hard lessons. Same man that pointed his arms at me like he was holding a gun and said he should shoot my head off with a shotgun….Cause I spoke to boldly.
My father and I butt heads. There is a reason he called me punk when I was a kid. Stubborn. And protective of me cause nobody else was….