so
i am sneaking online with my mother asleep in the room. im not supposed to be touching the phone lines for a while. i should be able to return to the land in which people communicate in a few days though
my mother tells me that he sincerely was going to put my belongings in trashbags out by the road
she stopped him, the first time she has stood up fo rme in a very long time
she told me a few days ago that if i keep handling these things calmly and not letting dad see me mad that he will stop targetting me so much. he needs a primary target. I dont think i am capable of enough restraint that he will become complete bored with tormenting me
I keep imagining the scenario, wes driving me home from the bus station, i see the bags, some of my clothes hanging out . . . That would have been it. That would have ended it all. there would have been the last shred of my childhood. the last bit of trust in my family. i would barely be able to remember the details of the last day that i had been a resident of this house. I would never have brought those bags back inside. I would have gone in, grabbed some things that remained and left. It would have been teh tortured and dramatic departure that a small part of me secretly wants.
I almost wish he had done it. So I could look at the past and say "there, thats it, reall solid proof that i cant live here. concrete evidence that my father is the asshole i keep telling everyone he is. I could have shattered the prestine image so many have of him and justified the severing of ties.It would have been hard as hell, I would have cried my eyes out. I think that maybe it would have been one of those moments that hardens you, somehow makes you better and stronger
or pushes you to the breaking point

My pajama pants are thin and if i run my hand down the top of my leg i can feel the hardened lines of thin slivers of scabs that are forming. When I did my laundry i saw the red line inside my khakis , i put them on before the bleeding stopped.
It isnt hte same sort of releif that it was before. it isnt me leaning against my door, tears pouring down my cheeks and chaos and scissors. It is almost as though, im establishing my control. Proving to myself how much more i can take, covering the psychological with the physical. Hiding behind something more concrete.
and only crying a little.