Entry 4

Apparently, I'm finally taking this seriously enough. My psychiatrist was very impressed by my last post in its "honesty" and "raw emotion". He says I should try and bring more of that to my journal and that only through that process can I truly work out my "problems". I then shared with him the raw emotion I was having at the time. He didn't seem as bothered as I thought he would be at the image of my scooping out his eyeballs and feeding them to him. I think he's been threatened before.

So, today I am supposed to write about my father. Not Esau, who is my adopted father, but my real father. I don't know exactly what he wants me to say, but I have to start somewhere.

My father was a scumbag. He was a thief, a liar, and a con-man. After I was born and he was forced to marry my mother, he had the bright idea that America was the land of opportunity. He made my mother pack up and leave her life in Port-au-Prince to enter the states illegally. At that point, the fires in the west were at their worst and with all the people fleeing from the Midwest he was sure that no one would ever know that we weren't locals.

I suppose it worked for a few years, until they started rounding up all the immigrants and putting them into camps. That camp in Florida was the last place I saw him. I figure he died with the rest of them, not that he ever meant anything to me. His last great act as my father was to sell my mother to the guards for extra rations.

Do I hate my father? Yes, but not nearly as much as I hate my mother. That man at least gave me something useful, the skill of survival. Had death come for him in any other form, he would have dodged it no doubt. Meanwhile, my mother was one of those helpless wives that just let herself and her daughter get dragged into the abyss.