Again and again

I thought I could finally rest tonight.

After a week of fighting a cold, juggling conference calls, and staying up late every night helping Little O with his art competition, without taking a single hour off. I told myself that when Friday evening came, I’d go to bed early.

But just as I ended my last call, the message came — another long, manipulative text from my father.

He wrote about court rulings and moral righteousness, about loyalty and “heaven’s arrangement,” as if the universe were keeping score of his suffering.

But buried in all those words was a threat: that he could sue Angel for perjury, that his actions could “impact our family’s finances” and he would ask for a humongous amount of compensation.

He said it like a man of virtue, but I could feel the violence beneath every word — the same tone I’ve known since childhood, the one that makes my heart beat faster and my body forget how to breathe

I told him that his words were recorded, that even his messages were enough for a protection order.

I told him that invoking heaven to scare me was abuse.

But even as I typed those words, I could feel the trembling. I was the little girl again — standing up to the storm, alone.

Afterward, I texted my younger brother. I thought maybe he’d understand.

But he told me to ignore Dad.

He said I was on his hook, that I bring this “shit” onto myself.

He said Dad’s words didn’t affect him at all — as if that made him wiser.

And when I said that I can’t ignore words, that I feel every emotion behind them, he told me that’s something I need to “learn.”

I told him my brain is different. That every word matters to me, because I remember everything.

He said, “Then don’t ask for advice.”

I said, “I never asked for advice. Hold me.”

He said, “Too bad. I’m not your dad or your husband.”

That sentence landed harder than my father’s threat.

I realized then that I’ve spent my entire life hoping someone — anyone — would step between me and harm.

But every time danger comes, everyone tells me to be strong, to ignore, to manage, to endure.

No one ever says, “You don’t have to fight this alone.”

I’m sick, exhausted, sleepless, and my body feels like it’s still bracing for impact.

But beneath the anger and the tears, I think what hurts most is not the threat itself — it’s the silence that follows it.

The silence of people who could protect me but choose not to.

I keep saying I’m tired of fighting, but the truth is, I don’t want to fight at all.

I just want to feel safe.

Maybe that’s what tomorrow’s EMDR needs to be about — not the violence itself, but the part of me that still keeps standing alone in the storm, waiting for someone to come back for her.

I’m almost 40 years old. When can I have my happily ever after? The day I die? I try so hard to keep having hopes, keep standing back up again and again, but why am I always so alone? I want to run and move far away.