Before I continue with writing this, let me give you a brief background of myself:
I am practically a mix breed, meaning that I don’t purely fall into one race. Anyways, my family background composes of both the richest people you could imagine and the poorest. I was born and raised in a 3rd world country and a lot of my family members could not get along. Those who were privileged and blessed, wanted to stay within the country while those who were not wanted to leave. My father and mother, apparently, left so that we could have a good future somewhere else. I grew up with my grandparents. So, if you do not see how complicated that is, let me tell you how it felt in the simplest form possible: I love my grandparents like my parents and I try to love my parents but find it so hard to do so, and since I cling to my grandparents arguments happen.
And, to end this small background…. my mother is a gold digging psychopath and my father has a personality disorder, is violent, used to do drugs, and an alcoholic.
I also don’t find anything wrong with me publicizing this story/letter because this name of mine, Oceane Lacroix, is just a pen name (but I’m part french, tho, in my father’s mother’s mother’s side…. so distant right?)
You used to beat me as a child. I barely saw you but whenever I did, the memories would be dark and I would always end up hiding. Sometimes, I’d listen to you and your friends drink outside the house and hear you guys argue. I’d hear you bash all my uncles. How do you expect me to treat them with respect when I hear you call them fucking assholes who don’t respect people? How do you think little three year old me felt? I just wanted to love everyone and I did. I clung to people when I was young. Now that I’m older, I realized that I clung to them because I was scared that if they weren’t there, that you’d beat me. Wonder why? You only beat me when grandfather wasn’t looking. Don’t say that I’m making these things up because I remember you balling your hands into a tight fist and punching it through my little stomach. I still remember the cause. It was because I leaned on the sink and it fell. I was only three. What would I know about sinks? And I don’t think a three year old will be that heavy to break a sink, don’t you think so?
Still, no one believed me. Why? Because they said that they never see me bruised. Well, from my memories, I remember being punched in the stomach and never the face. But they’re right. Why did I never bruise? I don’t know. Maybe I made those memories up? Maybe, because my mother is a psychopath and my father has a personality disorder, maybe I’m crazy as well?
Then I was five. My younger sister was already born and I wasn’t alone anymore. We were always together, the two of us. And my memories of you, daddy, during that time, were rather jolly. Maybe you stopped punching me, or maybe I wasn’t making any stories up anymore. Anyways, I remember that you always made me and my sister laugh. You would come out of the bathroom with your towel around your waist and belt out Lady Marmalade with your awful voice. And you’d always ask me what I wanted whenever you would come over for vacation. My sister and I always asked for the little stuff but you’d always come home with extravagant gifts. I could honestly say, hey, I love my dad.
One day, though, dad killed our cat. I heard the gunshot. boom. And the cat and her kitten was gone. I don’t remember if I cried or if I felt sad for losing that cat, but I remember hugging my little sister and being scared.
That memory buried itself in my little head. After all, I barely saw my father.He was never there. He was only there two weeks per year and he’d call once every month. He barely talked to me, though. He mostly talked to his mother but who could blame him? He was a momma’s boy and he missed his mom. And besides I had my grandfather, right?
I already entered elementary school. I was in this very privileged private school and I remember that there was this girl. We were in first grade and that girl was somewhat special. I was a shy first grader, barely talked and kept to myself. I watched people all the time, though, and that special girl was always teased. Ugly. Monster. Witch. All those horrible sayings that you could say to a little girl to make her cry. The other girls would push her, too, and I’d just watch and stare and do nothing. I did not know how to defend her. I did not even know her.
Then daddy called. He told me, Sometimes, you have to keep the truth a secret. It’s bad to be honest all the time, baby girl. I remember that I smiled and jumped in joy. I said, I know that, daddy! There’s this girl in my school. She’s special but I don’t call her special. He paused then said, That’s my girl.
At that time, I thought that I really was being a good girl. However, I did not defend that special girl. Also, why would it be to be honest? I grew up with Disney movies where truth always prevailed. There’s a difference between being respectful, sensitive, and not being honest.
Years passed and, finally, I was in high school. A great time, right? You have friends and you enjoy going out with them. How was my high school life? Horrible. I suffered from intense trust issues and I was pissed off at myself. Why? Because when I see confident people, I look up to them. I want to be like them because I feel as if I was a confident person. However, why couldn’t I be confident? Why did I hate myself so much? Why was I suspicious of people? I could not understand.
During my first year in high school, my dad took me out and brought me to the gardens. He put his arm around me and showed me the things that he had renovated in the house. I listen to him and feel comfortable. Then, he told me, that I should always be on top. I should never fall second to anyone especially this certain side of my family who I grew up with. I wanted to ask why, but I did not need to know the answers that I already know. He always trash talked that part of our family, always told me that they were evil, but I had more memories with them than him. And if he hated his cousins on that side of the family, why must he teach me how to hate them to? His cousins always treated me kindly. They brought me to the beach, would give me gifts, and they’d listen to me whenever I felt bad. But, since he was my father, I felt bad. I did not know if I should follow him or not. However, arguments happened between me and my father’s cousins. But family members fight. It was supposed to be normal. It was not normal for me, though, for I started to listen to my dad. I started to hate my family and I would get angry at easily whenever I would see them. And every time my siblings would go play with our cousins who were my father’s cousins’ children, I would go crazy,
And more shit happened. I saw my grandfather and father almost engage in a fist fight. I did not know if that was funny or not but I remember that I could not cast my eyes away. I was just watching. And to be honest, I was only eavesdropping. They did not know that I was there. It was just… ironic because the ones who came to both my father and my grandfather’s rescue were my father’s cousins who sat down with my father to calm him down because they cared for my father.
I was so confused.
Then my grandfather died. The position of man of the house was passed down to my uncle. No matter how much I love my uncle, though, who is my father’s brother, I could not look at him as a father. I did not grow up with him. Well, actually I did. I just don’t have much memories with him, though. My childhood memories with him was that he was a quiet man who was always at work. I would wait for him come home from work and surprise him. He’d also bring us to the movies, the doctor, and he attended my school events. He did all of those because he cared for me and my siblings. But it was so hard to change that father who was in my heart, and that was my grandfather. I’m still trying to think of my uncle as my grandfather but even now that I am twenty-two it is still so fucking hard. Especially if they keep saying that my father’s my father and that all the decisions land on my father. Why was it never grandfather who raised me? Why was it not uncle who was my second father? Why were the decisions coming from the man who planted his sperm in the bitch, who gave birth to me, in a one night stand? Why? I only want one father and it is just painful and I’m crying at this very moment thinking of how confusing and frustrating it is having three fathers with three different attitudes and three different beliefs. Who was I supposed to follow? Who was supposed to be my role model? It was my grandfather, but since everyone kept pointing me in the direction of my father, and since the loss of my grandfather somehow pointed me to my uncle, I became a mess.
Then college. Oh the last stage of education that could last decades. Anyways, I finally moved out of the country and lived with my mentally deranged parents. There, I became depressed. I even asked myself, why can’t I be happy when they’re trying to hard to make me smile? Yes, I admit that I was at the wrong. Both my mother and father always bought me gifts, always asked me to hang with them, always tried to talk to me, but nothing. I would come home from school with a frown on his face. I would start to see black whenever I’d hear their voices. And to know that they were in the vicinity would throw me in a spiral of numerous, unnerving emotions that I did not want to be in front of. My mother was at fault there, honestly, but I also blamed my father because he sided with my mother. He would always tell me, Understand your mother. When was he going to understand me? He was my mother’s puppet and he could not see how much of a psychopath my mother was.
Anyways, my father tried his hardest to mend things between my mother and me. At that time, I thought that he was a changed man because he was not as violent as before and he was, honestly, much much nicer. I was also happy that my siblings did not go through the emotional and physical abuse that I have been through. However, changed people still have their quirks for there were times when my father would just snap.
I, honestly, am a very messy person. So my father and I would always clash with my messy belongings. One day, I went home to see that all my belongings were thrown all over the house and a lot of things were broken. He said that it was my fault for being messy and that I should have been aware of my anger. So I took all the blame. I did not fight back.
I also worked part time as a tutor who went to my students’ homes. Since my father was being cautious and stuff, he would drive me. Don’t get me wrong, ok? I’m a very talkative person but when I don’t feel good, I get so damn quiet. Most everyone’s like that. Anyways, I would be quiet during our car rides. I would just listen. Ten minutes into the ride, he’s screaming at me, saying that I’m very disrespectful, self centered, etc. etc. etc. And, please take note that he would get angry at me because he would speak of his stories. I would not tell him my stories, you see, as I would just listen with those responsive “ah’s” and “oh’s.”
So, I realized that that was that: I would realize that I need to be nicer to my parents and accept them, and when I’m in the process of doing so, something will happen. I would take three steps forward but ten steps back.
Then the shittiest shit happened to our family. I would not speak of it but let’s just sum it up to this:
Divorce. I was being hardheaded and did what I could not while not listening to my very reserved family. My father and I patched up our relationship, but then I found out his secret (drugs) and everything went downhill because a friend of mine started to play with my head, saying that my father would end up harming someone and I was worried for the children in the house. Couple that up with some misunderstandings and gossip whores, and it seemed as if I was planning to throw my dad to rehab when I said that I would only do that if he hurts someone Because, apparently, my memories of him beating me up were still strong.
I left the country and stopped with my education. Back in my home country,my father accused me of being mentally ill so that he could cover up the secrets that I knew. Fucking shit, right? He would throw his own child just to keep his secrets hidden. I have never felt so alone and so misunderstood. However, nothing would push me down. When I want to stand up for something, nothing and no one but the God up there can stop me. And I want to trust him because I had this small touch of grace when I went to church after all the shit.
So, yes. I asked to go get my head checked because everyone around my dad agreed that I was mentally ill. After a year of seeing a therapist, I have been cleared to be considered in the normal spectrum but I do have a significant amount of stress. What keeps me from being considered as mentally ill? I could understand people and I could feel emotions. I have insight. However, I am just unbelievably stubborn for I fall under the personality ranges of people like Martin Luther King Jr. If you know him, you know that he did not give up on his cause no matter what. That’s me. When I say something, I’ll stick to it until the end. Also, when I’m angry, I would push the person I despise away and become self centered towards that person who I loathe. So, there.
There’s more that I learned from therapy, in which my personality leans towards three personality disorders: narcissistic, borderline, and histrionic (every person leans towards a certain personality). And, apparently, my therapist said that my father most probably has narcissistic personality disorder.
Anyways, going on with the story. I lived away from my father in my childhood home. Then, father was about to go home for good. In an attempt to keep the peace, I wrote him a letter. He accepted it. However, when he came back home, even if things were finally ok between us, I found out that it wasn’t. He randomly got angry one day and blamed his divorce on me.
Look, you fucking daddy, just because I was your first does not mean that I’m at fault. It’s not my fault that you fucked the bitch without thinking. (of course, I didn’t tell him that.)
So, yeah, my uncle heard and he intervened. I heard what my dad tell him. To make it easy to understand, let’s say that my dad and I fought over subject A. Dad told uncle that we fought over subjects B, C, and D. Uncle sided with dad. It pissed me off. Starting then, I went back to my depressive state whenever I saw the ugly bastard’s face. He deserved it. He will never receive the love of his first born no matter how much he tries because, deep inside, he does not want to see his faults. Instead, he puts his faults on others.
Then, one day, my father beat me up. Being a respectful daughter who grew up in this bloody third world country where the culture is your parents have the right to hurt you, I could not fight back. I wished that I was back in the US so that I could call 911 but the harsh reality was that this culture empowers parents to belittle their children. Anyways, some of my neighbors who are my relatives heard the commotion and came over. Guess what happened. They sided with my dad. And the same thing happened. The topic of the argument was subject A but my dad said B, C, D, and E.
How frustrating. I don’t even want to speak of what we fought about because the fact is, you are not supposed to beat up your DAUGHTER. People even tried to give me ice to put on my face. I refused. I said, I want it to bruise so that I have proof. Guess what. I did not bruise. I remember telling my uncle see. This proves that I did not lie about how dad used to punch me. I don’t bruise and I don’t know why! I got punched really fucking hard numerous times but nothing. As in NOTHING. And my uncle even doubted my account, saying that maybe dad slapped me and I just exaggerated the whole punching thing. Guess what, motherfuckers, I did not. My dear uncle did not even believe me until my sister confessed to seeing the crime.
Since then, my father and I cannot wait for the day that I leave this place for good.
So, going back to the bruising, I mentioned that maybe my childhood memories of being beaten up might have been my imagination. However, when I realized that I don’t bruise, I realized that I did not make those memories up and that I truly am not mentally ill. It is just that my father manipulates all our relatives by using the pity card, making him look like a special dude who lacked love when he was a child. To be unbiased, I would say that that is true. My dad’s life is a very, very sad life filled with feelings of being unloved and alone and being misunderstood. I had three father figures and he had two. We are kinda like the same, that’s why the personality that I lean to narcissistic and he, apparently, is narcissistic and my therapist thinks that he seriously has that disorder.
Anyways, I try not to be unbiased but let me get this out: I would not fall and I would go through a thousand gunshots without flinching and fighting back. However, when it is time to stop, it’s time to STOP.
I fixed all the relationships that were destroyed due to the lessons that my father taught me. However, I don’t want to fix the relationships with my father. Maybe deep down, I do. But that part is somewhere deep in the dark recesses of my soul. Because I would tell you that I will never forgive him until he realizes that he’s wrong because I am tired of being on the receiving end of his anger and on the receiving end of everyone’s frustrations. Most of all, I hate being painted as the liar. I am tired of saying the truth only to have it be twisted. I guess my father was right. It is not right to be honest. Well, here’s my belief: We would live in darkness if people did not fight for other people, if people hid behind masks and walls, and if people are cowards.
I would never stop fighting for what I believe in. I know that my image with my family might never be fixed and that hurts. I know that the people around me will never open their eyes to my violent father (my brother admitted that dad also used to punch him). I know that I will never get the justice that I deserve from all the years that I have suffered under my dad’s violent ways and his unhealthy mindset. You see, I do not ask for anything but for the acknowledgement that I am a hurt individual. I want to hear the people around me to say, I’m sorry. You were right all along. That’s all that I want to hear. I stopped dreaming of a time machine. I just want the acknowledgement that I never lied. They could even tell me something like, Leave already. Yes, you were right, but we cannot handle your stubborn personality that refuses to accept what’s around her. I would welcome that,. I would even have my family kill me if it means that they finally acknowledge my words and see how dangerous my father is.
To end this, I want to tell you something that my grandfather used to tell me which I could not understand while I was young. It’s this: While I am still alive, I will take care of you.
Those are the words of a true father. Because with my uncle, it’s hard to say but I feel as if he turns a blind eye to how hurt people around him are. He insists on seeing the sunshine. Sometimes, though, a storm comes and people need shelter. I do not look for partners in my hatred or fights, I just want a hug. And with my father, for him, he’ll only take care of you when he feels like it because if he does not then you’re dead.
Why? A family is a culture and I am confused with this culture because there are so many of you. Who am I supposed to be like? Who am I supposed to follow? It’s so confusing it hurts.
I wish you were here. Can I bring you back from the dead? I’m sorry for the teenage angst. I was at a loss and I found it hard to open to you but all those times that I did, I felt as if you loved me. You waited for me to get over my teenage angst and were so patient with me. I was just so late because when you died, I was still that teenager. The last few months of your life, I tried to be nice but it was hard. I did not give you the apology you deserved, I just did not know how to communicate all that pain in me, and that caused me to be harsh towards you, the person who loved me the most. Until now, I wish that I was different so that I could have treated you like a good daughter.
Do you see that I’m in a pain? I try to understand you but I see that there is this wall in between us. If before we had a good relationship, I would want to be honest and say that I have felt this wall between us for years already. I just feel as if it’s thicker now Maybe because you took grandfather’s place as the father I looked up to, and maybe because I expected you to be as brave, as talkative, as hyper, as loud, as versatile as him. I don’t know. I was used to the way he loved me that I could not find myself to get used to your ways. I also feel as if you don’t even try to understand me. Please don’t blame me, either, grandfather taught me that it is a parents’ job to parent, it is never the child’s job to parent. The child should be a child. So, yeah, I expect a great deal of understanding from my parent figures but I should have known before hand that I should not be switching the crowns that I have put on people’s heads. After all, it was never your job to be my father, uncle. Why must I pressure you to?
I hate you. You taught me the wrong ways of the world and you laid your strong fist upon me and your youngest child. You lie. Manipulate. Exaggerate, Depend on others, Blame others. And much more. No matter how much you try to buy me back with gifts and favors and whatnot, no matter how much you try to lower your head when it comes to me, my forgiveness is something that you will never receive.