We walked side by side across Greenwich park. It was overcast and windy, stormy guess. He wore his usual plaid shirt and jeans and I for some reason was dressed in all black. He explained to me he had been experiencing pains in his chest and that he had gone to the doctor for a check up. He was then referred to the hospital. “Turns out that pain was in-fact a tumour, cancer, and now I’ve been written off for dead”, he said.
We hugged, my head buried deep into his chest, sobbing. I told him I was sorry and that it was unfair, life was unfair. Our relationship had only just got back on track. What is this track by the way? And who defines what’s it is to be back on track??
I digress, we were in a better place than we had been for years and now this…I don’t remember much else. That being a dream I had 3 days ago about my dad and the pain in his chest. It hurt.
Tried but I couldn’t shake that feeling…lump in your throat + eyes burning + increased heart rate = the formula for tears. To my knowledge my dad is fit and healthy but that dream of mine had laid heavy on my heart and now that pain was in my chest.
My names Rachel, although I have been called monster, rotten, poison and the antichrist. All lovingly given to me by my father. I’ve probably spent most of my adult life wondering what I did to deserve such titles? But the title I heard the most was, “you’re just like me”.
There were some “times” in our house, some good, some bad but mainly bad, horrific, heartbreaking. I think those times have etched themselves onto my being, I won’t bore you with the details of the events, give you a time lie etc… as that’s not what this is about but more of a realisation for me.
I have become somewhat of a chamber of secrets – that’s not a reference to Harry Potter, I fucking hate Harry Potter but the title resonates with me, the things I have seen, heard and in turn felt.
“Clash of the titans”, the general air when we would come to blows usually because of my inability to back down from the truth or defending my mum.
“The scapegoat”, blame piled high on me, a teenage girl, so two adults feel could better about themselves, their actions and weaknesses.
“You’re just like me”, often heard in an episode of rage, all my fault of course. You know me, the straw that broke the camels back, finger that pulled the trigger, continually poking the bear.
“I’m nothing like you”, always my response, retaliation whichever way you choose to perceive it.
“But I am like you’, my quick wit, dry sense of humour, my inability to back down, takes no prisoners, not backwards in coming forwards, pick yourself up, dust yourself off, tell me what you want about me, it’s ok to call someone a cunt and mean it kind of attitude, the list goes on. I EVEN LOOK LIKE YOU.
I am you… diluted my by mother…
I’ve stopped battling “l’m nothing like you”, or believing “I am you”. I guess I was wrong because I realise now that I am “something like you”.