Notes.

During the time I lived with my father, he left me an array of notes. Morning, day and night, notes would appear outside my bedroom door, on the sofa, in the kitchen, the bathroom floor, everywhere in the house.

They would either be a list of orders such as:

  • Pull the curtains before you leave
  • Tidy up your room
  • Take the recycling out
  • Do the washing up

Standard chores but with a heap of pressure. There would be no “please” either, my name wouldn’t even be written on it. Only except for the horrible name he called me: “Babitago”.

Of course he would sign it with “Daddy”.

Other notes would be more spiteful. If we had an argument the previous night, the next morning my father would write a detailed note describing my nastiness and disrespect towards him. He would’ve told me this during the argument too but he always had to reinforce his point. The note outside the bedroom door was the way to do that. It would be the first thing I would see after waking up and it would haunt me through the day. After all, I had the pleasure of answering to it later that night.

The kitchen was his favourite place to leave notes. I couldn’t avoid that room as most of his set chores were focussed there. Right by the kettle is where he placed them. On an A4 sheet of paper would be a list of mistakes I had made. Next to it were items related to that particular note. It could be food he accused me of wasting, food I did not even know existed because he had hidden them from me so they would smell or be covered in mould. That way his point could be emphasised. I was a “waster”. It could be bank statements, it was often bank statements. I always had to justify where money came in and where money went. He had complete control for many years.

I became petrified of opening letters after a while and still struggle with that now. Not because of what they contained but because if they were open, he would see their content. I was never frivolous with money he just wanted to know the inside of my life. He wanted to own me, control me, demean me.

In October of 2009, I had a horrific Asthma attack.

I went to stay at my mothers after leaving the hospital. I could not go back to my father’s house after suffering all night and watching as he refused to call me an ambulance. I was “fine and overreacting” apparently. (He later denied ever doing that).

When I did eventually arrive home, this is what I discovered on the bed.

Image

I had flung everything from my desk onto the floor in a moment of panic during the eight hour Asthma attack. Although my father knew this, it had remained on the floor for a total of 9 days. My father refused to pick anything up, the defiant bastard.

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