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I was born in the mid eighties. My mother left with me twenty nine days later. My mother is some sort of sociopath. My father stalked her, in a way.
I finally asked him about it, after twenty some years of hearing that harpy bitch about it, and what he told me made sense. He wasn't stalking her. He doesn't consider what he did stalking. I'm his only child. He's never been social. He wanted to see me.
My maternal grandmother had told me as much, but she's infinitely kind and sometimes I wonder if she's saying things to make me feel better.
He said he never schlepped around in the bushes or anything. He'd call and ask how I was, when could he see me. He'd come over and beg just to hold me for five minutes.
He showed me something I didn't know existed.
It's my uncle, his brother, videotaping my birth/my dad taking me out to the hallway of the hospital, shielding my eyes from the overhead lights, and talking to me. He told me about ice cream, and kittens and puppies. He told me he'd always be there for me. He was crying, but I don't know that I've ever seen him so happy. He told me about flowers, and bubble blowing machines. Stuffed animals. The mobile he'd built for me with stars and moons that I'm saving for my own children. How excited he was to be a dad.
After that, they go back into my mom's room with me, and dad gives me to her. The look on her face
To whomever it concerns, if there is anybody. You, or you guys, or you... beings, have fucked with me good and plenty. Whatever. I'm not dead. It's all gravy. But I've hurt. I've cried. You can have all that. You can have more. Just... if there is something after we die, or at least for my dad, let him just... eternally be in those hours. He was thirty eight, and there's less sorrow in his face in that video than there is in mine now. Please.
I'm used to pain and lonliness and crying. I'm used to hurting. I don't think I'd know what to do with myself if everything was A-OK. Pain suits me. I wear it well. I turn it around and use it.