Exit Wounds

18 | little girl

E I G H T E E N

LOS ANGELES, CA

          As I sit in my father's office, feeling less and less like his daughter with each passing second, I realize how big of a miracle it is that I'm even there in the first place.

          Having that awkward and difficult conversation with Michelle was one thing, as she knew there's something boiling between me and Adam, even if she was horrendously mistaken about what it was at first. With my father, it was my entire sense of self that was at stake; I was a little girl all over again, building her personality and learning her worth by basing it on external validation.

          I'm nothing if I'm unable to make my father proud of me. I'm nothing if I can't make him love me. The second he finds out the truth about me, the seconds he uncovers every dirty little secret I've spent six years of my life hiding away from him, I fear all that supposed unconditional love will vanish. It's not something one gets over or is able to fully ignore; I sure as hell have been fighting for years to come to terms with what happened, and sometimes have trouble fully processing I'm the same girl those things were done to.

          Even if I want to distance myself from Rebecca Kane, she'll always be a part of me, whether I want to or not. Adam will always be around with varying intensity and danger level, and it's something I must learn how to live with. I need to live around that fact.

          Sadie moves from standing by the door to standing next to me, appearing to be much taller than she actually is thanks to a combination of her Miu Miu heels (which I'm forever jealous of) and to the way she conducts herself. I've rarely ever seen her hunched forward in relaxed settings, let alone in professional ones, and, though it's usually frightening to witness, this is one of the times I need her to be the calm and collected one while I internally freak out. I feel minuscule there, especially with the steady hand she keeps on my shoulder, and I know I'll have to speak up at some point, but my throat has dried up. Nothing comes out of my mouth.

          To her credit, Sadie is surprisingly delicate and wise with the way she approaches the subject. She doesn't want to paint a portrait of me where I'm utterly defenseless, just a small child with nowhere else or no one else to turn to, but she knows I'm the victim in this situation.

          She dances around the main point, often glancing down at me to check whether I've finally grown a pair and have decided to be honest with my father, but that's the one thing I don't know how to be around him when being honest will very likely ruin whatever is left of our relationship. It's painful to even think about how my mind constantly circles back to that point, choosing to focus on a single outcome without any concrete evidence that will happen, but it's no surprise to have my brain jump the gun and skip several steps in the meantime. 

          The therapeutic process I subjected myself to has made me considerably more self-aware than most people, modesty aside, and I have the presence of mind necessary to identify what it is that I'm doing—self-sabotaging, allowing my anxiety to overpower my rational thoughts, returning my father to a pedestal I'd knocked him down from years ago.

          If he loves me, he'll believe me. If he loves me, he'll understand. Why am I working so hard to convince myself this isn't the man I know?

          Believing me involves not believing a single thing that Adam has said about me while I've been gone. I don't want to consider the possibility of him and my father having grown close since then, particularly when taking into consideration that he had been clawing his way into Michelle's brain and succeeded, and I know my father would protect Michelle unconditionally—simply because she'd let him, no questions asked. I'm always a lot more skeptical, a lot less eager to accept a hand outstretched towards me without baring my teeth to bite it.