Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
I remember asking my old man every day for a week to help me with an art assignment. He was usually pissed and didn’t pay me too much attention. I’d learned young to duck and weave and stay out of the way. I had asked for a piece of timber to be cut. Eventually, I did what I always do (to this day) when I want something done. I did it myself. I raised the axe (possibly not the right tool for the job) above my head, the handle and the axe head separated and fell right into my face. I was eleven. I walked to the house up the hill. The home of my best friend and they took me to be stitched up.
Conveniently close, the house up the hill. My home away from home, the place I went when things were really shitty.
My dad’s response to the incident went something like “the only thing you had going for you is your pretty face and now that’s fucked too”.
I decided I would have an amazing life. Stand up, be successful and strong, responsible, accountable, sensible, sober.
I barely graduated high school. I was high or drunk most of my senior years. Pregnant at 22 and again at 23. My Dad reminded me of my failures on a regular basis. I don’t feel sorry for myself.
Sometimes, I nail it and sometimes I make terrible fucking decisions and so, the journey continues.
I remember hiding under the bed when I was small. Hoping to be overlooked in the latest drunken rage, I remember being told I was worthless and pointless and that I had ruined his life. I don’t remember any kind words or hugs. I don’t remember ever being encouraged. I remember the shouting and the smashing, I remember the backhanders for no reason. I don’t feel sorry for myself.
I am a grown arse woman. I am accountable. I take responsibility, I look for a lesson in most things. I don’t believe any parent sets out to do a shithouse job raising a kid. He was just doing the best he could do with what he had. Fuck, aren’t we all.
Life rises and falls in stories. I am aware: my moods, my emotional wellbeing, my mental health. I am like a book. Each new story has a beginning, a middle and thankfully always an end. I can sense it before it arrives. I manage it. I take extra care; I prioritise and schedule around it. I don’t feel sorry for myself.
Most days, this journey is filled with intense happiness, the other days are just horrible. I don’t feel sorry for myself, but then I don’t feel sorry for my father either.