My dad's making noise about how he's not sure if he wants to visit before leaving for overseas again because he might be too tired.
You know, that's fine, but don't tell me about it. Just fuck right on back to your little hole and go back to getting recreationally drunk. We're done. You're the one who taught me, more than anyone else, the art of being abused, and I'm suffering from it every day.
I have panic attacks at work, you sleaze. I feel myself getting lightheaded. . . I can't stop swaying. . . I go lock myself in the bathroom and concentrate on breathing. I hope no one hears me and I'm grateful for the opportunity to go show my work to my boss, who says things like "great" and "perfect" and "you're catching on really fast." When I earn it. Rather than, from him, the inevitable: "I don't think it's your best. . ."
And I'm grateful to go see my co-translator, who fusses over whether I'm eating and sleeping enough and working too hard every time I see him. Every time, without exception. And he worries when I don't contact him back.
Well, it looks like a couple of calls in after years of neglect my dad decided he was done with that. So fuck him.
Fuck all this. There's people in my life who have never tried to one-up me or belittle me, and I'm going with them. That's it. That's my decision. I'm giving up on the ones who hurt me, and I'm going with the ones who are willing to help even though I'm damaged goods. I'm not putting up with this anymore.