#i didn't spend years growing my shit out for no reason id hate to cut any length at all

[magnoliamyrrh]

you know i actually think this is one of the worst fucking parts of csa and incest. i despise admitting it, i absolutely dispise it but theres still times when i miss him. not most times. but theres times. theres still times. theres times when i wish i could pretend all the shit just didn't happen. i tried. there were times when i tired. talking to him was only more red flags. but i missed talking to him. were both insane and hes more insane than me but growing up sometimes i felt like maybe because of that at least we understood each other. i do understand him better than anyone else. for the most part he doesnt understand me anymore. but it scares me how well he does at times. three summers ago when i had a mental breakdown i picked up the phone and called him for the first time in years crying like some foolish child wanting her daddys comfort. clearly, i hadnt learned my lesson well enough. sometimes i still want to. foolish and short cited. it was not always bad and that is what makes it hard. if it was it would be easier. i still remember. he would take me to his architecture studio. he taught me how to make mosaics. hed let me help him on his projects, out on the worksite id be measuring and cutting and putting up mozaics. id stay up with his wife at night and make moonstone lamps. he made me sets of moonstone jewerly. i still have them. he made me jewerly and toys out of leather, delicately painted and cut. he taught me how to paint. he taught me how to draw some things. hed stay with me and drew all the things i wanted him too, dragons and portraits of my lps and whatever pokemon i was obsessed with. i still have them. they still smell like him. my artstyle still has his style within it, spirals and swirls so distinctive, a certain surrealism and abstraction, a obsession with gold. down south we would go digging through the dacian ruins in dobrogea, come back with old pieces of ancient pots and pans. he knew history, much of it. he knew theology. he knew anthropology. he still does. when i was little he would buy me these paleontology sets i was obsessed with, youd have to dig out little plastic dinosaur bones, wed spend hours by the black sea as i dug through them. i always wanted to be a paleontologist. is that why i do anthropology now? is that why a fascination and longing for the ancient is within me? he would take me to church. we spend new years in a monestary, sung verses echoing in its small wooden, painted frame. we spend many nights in them. the smell of frankensece in the air. i still burn it. hes still all over me. hes still in my blood. blood of my blood, he is my blood. lately when i look in the mirror i dont see him anymore, but i still know hes there. i look like his mother. i have his eyes and his hair, but lighter. i have the same bad teeth and the same cigarette obsession and my laugh sometimes cracks like his. he was sick. he is sick. he had to give me his sickness because he couldnt carry it alone. unfair. but i still feel responsible for him. i still miss him. i still do. i still remember the reasons i miss him. i missed him. i wanted him to be around more there were times as a child when id cry and think, at least he woukd understand. i hated him. and never wanted to be around him again. and yet i still loved him. what a nightmare. i wish i didnt remember anything at all