This is very late, I’m sorry. I have no excuse, I just couldn’t write this post yesterday. So, it’s cheating and it’s late and not for a reasonable reason like because of work, but I just thought I’d quickly write something anyway. I’ve read pc’s post (so sad and heartaching, and understandable), but you’ll just have to take my word that what I’m going to write about is the very same as I was thinking about all of yesterday, it wasn’t influenced by pc’s post.
So, what came to mind for me with this word was the relationship between my father and I, when I was younger. I adored my dad, such a massive amount. He worked away and was abroad monday to friday every single week, so I’d see him two days a week, days when he would often be working from home anyway. He was everything to me, I missed him when he wasn’t there and I wouldn’t leave his side for the duration of time that he was home. I’d be at his side, on his lap…anywhere he went, I did too. If he played golf, I caddied, if he had errands to run, I’d go with him, if he got violent, I’d try to calm the situation down, if he hurt me, I’d allow it to happen, if things felt squidgy, I’d ignore it.
The phrase “what did your last slave die of?” has been going around in my head a lot actually, because that was something people would jokingly say to me all the time…”just say no, pb, ask him what his last slave died of”, because I would be running and fetching and going to do anything he asked, no question, no limit. I didn’t leave his side. I was truly devoted to him.
And that had sacrifices. And the fucking twisted part is that a) I wholeheartedly blame myself for the small amount of wrongness in our relationship – I look at photos and think you little whore and b) I still sometimes feel like I would do anything for his love, to feel that again. Because one thing was certain, he loved me, I was his little girl, and he actually loved me. I had somebody.