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The connections are everywhere. I learned to be frightened in an environment of chaos. I learned to suppress my anger, because anger was punished: a punch in the arm, a pinch, or a kick.
Don’t get angry now, Tommy. Your cheeks are all red again, boy.
My father. He really did call me boy. I hated that motherfucker. I did. I always did, since as far back as I can remember. I think a lot of the guilt I feel stems from these feelings. I was supposed to love him, wasn’t I? He was my dad. I was supposed to look up to him, wasn’t I? Others kids seemed to. Daddy said this and daddy said that.
My father never said anything at all. He talked a lot of shit. He made bad jokes. He was simple. He was stupid. My father is stupid. Ok, I said it.
What’s more, I’ve always felt stupid because my father is stupid.
You are your father’s son, Tom. My mother said this to me just last week. I wish she would stop that already.
I’ve always felt crazy because my father is crazy.
You get your temper from your father’s side.
I will always be a failure. He told me so, all the time. I was a fat, nerdy, four-eyed, bookworm, too quiet, too shy, always nervous and crying disappointment of a son.
Why should I pay for your little league team? You’re clumsy. You’re too fucking fat to run.
Fuck you. I’m not your son. You’re a ridiculous bastard—a miserable demon klutz. Go stumble destruction in some other life. Our connection was a fucking accident. Move along! I’ll consider myself adopted. Thanks for the lifetime of scars—love them — but I’m done. You’ll never harm me again. I won’t allow it. I have my own family now, and you aren’t welcome.
I hate you. Do you understand? I hate that I understand you. Do you hear me? Are you reading this? Did anyone pass it along? I hate that I can relate to your illness. I hate that you make me empathize without even trying. I hate that I am your son. I am your son down to my bones. I can feel you. I haven’t heard from you. I wonder if [I hope] you are well. I worry. I hate that I do.
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