Götterdämmerung or The Twilight of the Gods must happen to us all. As you approach your personal twilight dear Father, here is the letter which I need to write but will of course never send. The repercussions for my Mother might be utterly horrific. For you are now on the verge of a complete and utter lack of your famous ‘control’.
The Twilight of the Gods. You were, in fact like a God to me as I grew up. I worshiped and idolised you. Never believing for one second that the Daddy I adored so much was an abusive monster. How can a child know that? It is only the wisdom of the adult and in many cases, the middle aged adult than we can then finally see what a horror show my childhood was.
You were very careful not to go too far, so what was happening behind the doors of a respectable middle class family, were shielded from public view. But behind those doors was a different story. A nasty, slimy Middle Mid Ranger. Middle management, middle everything. Bourgeoisie. Middling to poor academic results, you faded into the background at work. Not so with us. The abuse started before I was born with your temper directed at mum. I suspect you desperately wanted a boy to accord with your own view as ‘Pater Familiaris’. How you loved to trot out cod latin,, you pretentious cunt. Who would want to call their own child Mercedes? I rather suspect poor, co-dependent Mother stepped in there. Poor dear Lesser brother was not as fortunate, alas. You might as well have called him ‘Adolf’. When I was able to speak, you started the trammeling in earnest. Telling me the world was an unsafe place, trust no-one. Stop telling others’ things. Then flipped this with essentially turning me into a mini-you. Your own personal appliance to be wheeled out. That was said to me such a lot growing up; ‘You’re just like your Father.’ I was so proud to hear it. But did I stop and think and reflect on the tone of voice in which it was said by others? I did and it bothered me; it niggled me.
The tantrums, oh my lord, the absent silent treatments where you would march to the front door and proclaim loudly and theatrically that you were done with us and ‘I’m leaving you all now’. Two frightened children would beg you and cry not to go. But you still went. You heartless son-of-a-bitch. As time went on, brother and I defeated this power play by just shrugging our shoulders but still you went although they became less frequent. Dozens and dozens of times this happened. The route of my own abandonment issues. The amount of times I was hit as a child, that I packed a suitcase as a small girl and tried to run away. My own kids never did that. it isn’t normal to be continually wanting that as a child; to run away. Nor is praying that my own real parents would come and get me, someday. Save me. Somehow.
What about encouraging me to eat raw sausage then hitting the back of my thighs with a really thick piece of elastic; ‘The Sausage Fly’? Or waiting until I was in bed and scratching the door – ‘The Scratchy Monster’? Took me years to not sleep with the light on. These are the roots of my mixed anxiety/depressive disorder which YOU programmed into my mind as I was growing. I still suffer from that and I always will. It was at the route of my recent suicide attempt. Or the attempts to constantly put me down as not good enough. A disappointment? You’ve wasted your life Ren! Micky Mouse University for you my girl! Oh second top at GCSE in your school? That’s because they are all idiots! ‘Thermodynamics? Pfft! I could do that!’ No. You. Fucking. Couldn’t.
I didn’t like the way you looked at me in a bikini or how you would pull down my knickers and spank me into my teens. Or what about the calls of ‘slut’ and slaps to my face when you disapproved of an outfit later on? You fucking pervert.
Triangulation. Oh the endless triangulations between Co-Dep mum, LVN brother and I. How dare you have the brass neck to wheel me out in front of your mistress IPSS? I have destroyed N’s for less. And the others through the ages that we heard whispers about. The tears you made my Mother cry. Let’s turn to her now. In the golden anniversary year that woman has given you nothing short of a gold star service (Good Stepford BTW!). And how did you repay her? That’s right, by being serially unfaithful. I know you have because I know what you are. I can never tell her of course her suspicions were bang on; it would break her. So I shall shield her from the truth that her entire life has been an utter lie. But I will protect her now. I’m kinda like that as ‘Saviour’.
Thanks to others (invariably the Greaters – oh how they would destroy you, I would love to watch that. Much popcorn would be eaten.), I know exactly what and who you are. More importantly, I know how to defeat you. You see, as a direct result of how you treated me and my family, you gave me weapons. I have a toolbox full of them now. Oh dear Father, as a SES, how it must rankle you to come to terms with the fact that not only am I far more intelligent that you, I can really see you?
And I do see you.
You should be incredibly thankful that I am now holding on to my own E nature with a grim, vice like grip. The Supernova is looming and it’s only my own, poor mum and what you have done to her which is staying my hand.
I see how much you’ve aged in the last 6 weeks – you are only 73, that’s still so young! But you ARE aging. It’s the monster isn’t it? It’s coming out. It is not a pretty sight although but it is a fascinating one. You created a writer. And a scientist (because I wanted to please you). So here I am, a post graduate level physicist who has published academic papers and lectured at undergraduate level, watching you, observing you, taking notes and writing. Oblivion is fascinating and I feel privileged to have the opportunity not only to witness it but witness it as a fully weaponised Empath who is totally cogniscent of the process that’s going on.
Goodbye dear Daddy. It’s too late for you now. It may be too late for my Mother. But it’s not too late for me or my darling children.
Yours, for the limited amount of time you have left,
Your ever loving daughter and sometime NISS.
P.S I quite like the title, don’t you? That’s for making me sit through the entire Ring Cycle when I was 9, you sadistic bastard. I sat there, at your knee because I wanted to please you. Because I loved you. I never asked myself ‘What made me happy?. I still struggle with that. Don’t worry, your place in Valhalla has not been assured, I am told. You are burning in the flames of your own creation. I hear Odin is pretty pissed at you for your own hubris. Twilight is falling…
P.P.S. Never piss Odin off. He’s an utter bastard.
P.P.P.S I told you about my rape last night and all you said was …And? Burn you fucker.