Dad picks at my scabs.

I thought I learned that tendency from my cousin. She was always picking at her scabs and I never understood it until I tried and realized how compelling it is to pick myself open.

You get rebirth and redemption and righteous punishment. Pick the variance off, break open the old and expose the new.

Why does it feel so hard to accept the evidence of healing? What’s so fucking hard about keeping still and waiting for the wound to fill in?

Dad claws at my wounds, presses his finger in, and tells me my pain doesn’t exist because pain doesn’t exist because his pain doesn’t exist so just… be happy. Be at peace.

I get the horrifying text message from him “I hope you are feeling more peaceful now” and I remember how often I was told I had anger problems when I knew in my GUT it was the purest form of self preservation to be angry. I desperately want to throw that insulting, minimizing sentiment back at him. I desperately want to do a lot of things, like smash all my dishes outside. And if I can’t do that, I want to lock myself deep inside my head and bash this stupid bitch’s head against the wall until she bleeds out and no amount of scabbing will make it ok.

I’ve inherited my dad’s hatred of me and/or I’ve inherited his hatred of self. Which is it? Does it even matter? It’s too easy for me to stay hurting, stay picking.