Tomorrow you will be born and I'm so excited to meet you.
I don't know it yet, but I will also be so sorry that when I first look into your eyes, I'll see a reflection of my abusive dead brother.
My father made him the scapegoat and me the good one, and used me to make him feel like a monster and a failure. He committed suicide when he was 38 and we hardly spoke of him again.
I always felt like it was my fault. I felt like I must have deserved what he did to me as a kid. I felt like I was the reason he got depressed and died. No one ever told me it wasn't true. No one ever told me I was used by my parents. No one ever told me that the problem was them, not me.
The only way I survived long enough to be having you, dear son, was to pack all this guilt and rage and sorrow so deep inside me that I didn't even know it was there. For what felt like my whole life I could remember, I couldn't feel it.
Until I have you tomorrow. And I see you. And I see him. Part of me remembers, but not the thinking part. A deeper part.
This part hates anything you do that reminds me of him. And so much does when you cry and fuss and get angry. That makes me feel guilty, so guilty I want to die myself.
So I will make the only choice I think I can.
I will still be your Dad, but I won't really be there.
I won't really see you, or know you. The parts I do see I actually kind of hate, but that's a secret even to myself.
I won't be present in your life. I won't be present in my own life.
Because being present makes me want to kill myself.
I know this is terrible. I know it so deep that we will never be able to talk about it. Because if we do, it will push me into a suicidal mental breakdown that only shock therapy can snap me out of.
I wiill hurt you as a son like my father hurt my brother, and won't be able to admit it.
When you get older, I hope you can figure out what really happened even though you won't have my help. If you do, I hope you can manage still lying and pretending with me so I won't get suicidal.
I hope most of all that you grow up to be different than me.
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I believe you, Dad. I wish I could have known you. I wish I didn't have to write this letter instead of you. I wish we could have had a real family.
I didn't have to grow up to be different than you. I just had to figure out that you were never really here.
If you are in CPTSD forum trying to figure out if you actually have it, basically 100% something real happened.
Weird how I still struggle with whether my experience was bad enough, but never read a single post here where I doubt the OP
CPTSD