So this has been brewing for a few months now. Because I keep writing and keep erasing, it’s something that is so innocent, that was ruined, that I want so much to understand. Being excited to wear your dad’s shirts seems so ordinary; but for me it’s something completely different. Its something that bothers me almost haunts me really. It’s a constant nagging, itching burning tearing awful in your chest heavy kind of feeling. And no matter what you do it just won't go away. My father’s shirts are something that for me hurts my heart; only it’s worse than that. Most things go away after a few days and you forget that it even happened; it’s not a big deal. Wearing my fathers T-shirts was for me, terrible awful. Wearing his shirts that I would be so excited to wear has become something I am more than ashamed about and feel incredibly guilty about. I wanted to wear those shirts, they were huge and often would drag on the floor, they were so long. I hate that I wore those shirts. I hate that I can still see the pictures on the front of my favorites. There was the totally eighties bright baby blue one, with the sparkly Dallas letters on the front. The letters were like those iron on’s that were not really all that soft. There was the bright yellow one that we got in Buck snort Tennessee. I can not believe that I still hold my little five year old self accountable for picking out a shirt to wear to bed. Somehow my picking out a shirt and being so excited was in my mind reason to be assaulted. I hate that I would be so excited, I hate that I wanted him to look at me and smile and be special. I wanted him to really see me.
I can not seem to get away from this piece of my history. I was talking about it a few times in the last few weeks and then there was a post on face book about the things that we wear and the feelings they have for us. All the work that I have done and it comes to the simple fact that I picked out a shirt, and I blame myself for the things that would happen to me after picking out that shirt . I feel guilty that I asked for what happened because I wore his shirt. In my head, I do know that is INSANE, so that is the good part. But deep in my bones, I wish that I wasn't excited. I wish that I didn't still see those shirts and the pictures in my head. I can remember feeling so little standing by his dresser I couldn't even reach the top. And I could barely reach the shelf. I can remember how they were folded and I can remember thinking how cool that those glass Avon cologne bottles were. I can remember the color of his dresser and I remember him standing there with his arm on the top. And then there was little me standing there with my bare chest picking out a shirt to wear to bed. In most homes that might be something that wasn’t dangerous, might even be a good thing but in my house as many things it was different. It was dangerous and not at all, innocent.
I remember seeing him standing there and thinking he was huge, so tall. I guess when you are five, most people are tall. I can remember thinking that I wanted him to look at me and be special to him. I wanted him to like me and that just never happened. And the kid that I was I never stopped trying. Even when he was at his worst I wanted to run to him, I wanted him to be proud; I wanted him to keep me safe and sound.
Its crazy thinking back, even as I got older, I can remember going into his dresser and like somehow I was still looking for answers. And I would touch all those cologne bottles. I would straighten things; look at the shirts like somehow there were clues in his dresser as to why he hated me so much. I can remember doing that even as I got older.
I do understand in my head that I was a little girl and it should have been ok, it should have been safe to wear one your dad’s shirts to bed at night. For me it wasn’t just a shirt, I wanted to pick out just the right shirt, to make him proud to make him like me. For me it wasn’t just a shirt, it was so much more!!!! It was a way for him to love me, to see me really see me. It was those few seconds when I would get excited and hope that one of my favorites was there and folded and waiting for me to wear it that I remember and feel awful about. I wanted to wear that shirt to keep me safe and sound and seen and loved. I had hopes of being seen and being protected. I knew what was going to happen at night. I knew that it wasn’t going to be good and I knew that I was going to be hurt. And yet I would still stand there excited, wanting what I knew was impossible. And that I do not understand. I hated what he was doing, I hated how he would hurt me and I continued to hope and be excited that if I picked the right one, maybe if I wore it just right then maybe somehow he could love me. That is completly unimaginable. What a monster, what a complete monster.
And the tears flow……I wanted him to love me. I wanted him to see me, not hurt me. I have seen dads with their kids and the look that the dads have, that their kids are just precious just awesome, I wanted my dad to look at me like that. I wanted to make him happy just because I was me. I wanted to make him like me, make him love me. I wanted to know that look, that kind of love.
This is one of those rough pieces of my past. I hold myself accountable for wanting all the things that every five year old girl feels. Maybe the shirts were just part of it for him, pick out a shirt, go to bed with him, maybe it was just part of his evil cruel plan. I don’t remember many words from him, but his eyes his actions spoke loud and clear. I was nothing, I meant nothing, I was nothing absolutley nothing, I couldn’t do anything right, I was good to be used and abused and often I didn’t even do that right, I was just so small.
I am trying to understand this piece of my past, and it’s hard. It hurts my heart. Not being loved, not feeling special and wanting it so much. The things that my little five year old brain had to think about were not five year old things. The things that I had to think about were not even adult decisions. The things I had to think about were decisions that no human being should ever have to think about. I couldn’t just make a decision I had to think about what all the consequences might be. In my head, I think I should not have stood there in my little underwear picking out a shirt, and being excited, I knew what was going to happen next what was coming how in the world could I be excited!!!!!! I do not understand. I am trying to understand but I do not. I have figured out bigger pieces, this one will just take some time.
I heart your heart, Callahan. Be gentle with yourself.
Pearl Jam : Daughter
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