I look at this photo in amazement. My lonely black chair beside a singular mirror. Who lived there? Nothing suggests this is home to anyone. Yet it was my home, my prison, my shelter, my room. The red walls only magnify my emotions at the time; my anger and hurt growing from the daily abuse. The emptiness echoed my loneliness. This was what I looked at for fifteen years of my life. A blank space. I wasn’t allowed possessions, I was afraid to keep them. Mostly in fear of him and his many, many rules. The fear of him finding a personal touch or something new stopped me in my tracks. So I kept it sparse to pacify him and keep my head above the water. That was until he found a tissue on the floor or a glass on the table and the contents of my drawers would be strewn across the floor. I took a set of photos before I left the house for good. Here is a series of the sadness.
It’s not that I wish my father was still alive, it’s not like I long for his love or wish a real relationship with him. There just feels as though there is a void in my life. I know what it is. He left me without any answers, any conclusions. I have not been given closure. Yes, he is gone and that offers me a little cessation but I wanted to get what I deserved and have a chance to find out the whys, what and hows.
Why did you do it?
What did I ever do to you?
How can you justify treating me that way?
I never got any answers to any of my questions. I have asked over the years but how an earth do you put it to an abuser? How do you get what you want? He would never have given me what I want especially when he gained so much satisfaction from taunting me. He enjoyed the fact that it was another thing he could play with, it was another chance to toy with my emotions.
The void remains. It will always be there. I just hope the emptiness will one day be filled.