look at me now

trigger warning:

this piece talks about emotional and physical abuse, parental neglect, and suicidal thoughts. please read gently and only if you have the emotional space for it today. if at any point you feel overwhelmed, it’s okay to pause, it’s okay to step away.

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people love to joke about “daddy issues” like it’s this cute, funny personality trait. something that just means you have bad taste or like being cared for. but it’s not that simple. it’s not funny when you’ve lived it. it’s not quirky when the first person who was supposed to love you is also the one who taught you fear.

my parents split when i was really young. most of my childhood felt like a back-and-forth blur between puerto rico and the states , never really having one place that felt mine. my dad remarried (i’ll call her C here for her privacy ) and honestly, she did everything. she took care of me and my brother when she was still basically a kid herself. and then she had my little sister, who felt like a tiny light in a really dark house.

but my dad was never really there. not emotionally. he worked a lot, he was obsessed with money, and he liked being in control. he could make the smallest thing feel like the end of the world if it didn’t go his way.

and then there was that night.

i was a freshman in high school. he’d lost a pair of headphones something tiny, something that shouldn’t have mattered. he thought i’d taken them. i didn’t even own an iphone or anything they could connect to, but he didn’t care. he was angry, and when he got angry, it was like there was no way out. i remember trying to explain myself, and it only made things worse. i remember the yelling. the heat of it. and then it wasn’t just yelling anymore.

it’s hard to describe what it feels like when someone you love turns you into their punching bag. it’s like your brain shuts down to protect you. you stop being a person and just become this body absorbing everything. i remember crying, trying to make him stop, trying to make him believe me. i remember the silence after, the kind that makes your ears ring because you don’t know what just happened but you know it broke something inside you.

i went to my room that night and sat on the edge of my bed feeling like nothing. like i was just made of bruises and apologies. like i would never be worthy of love, because even the person who was supposed to love me most couldn’t. and in that moment, i didn’t want to keep living. i didn’t want to wake up and go through another day pretending i was okay when i clearly wasn’t.

i don’t remember everything that happened next, just flashes ,the hospital, bright lights, people talking around me. a psychiatrist came to talk to me, and she asked what happened. for the first time, i told the truth. i told her everything. and she listened. she didn’t brush it off or tell me i was dramatic. she reported it, and the next day CPS showed up at my house.

i thought maybe that meant things would finally get better. that maybe telling someone would help me. but my dad was furious. i had never seen him that angry before. he told me i ruined everything. he was ready to flee the country with us if he had to. and when CPS came back to talk again, he made me lie. he told me if i didn’t, i would never see my siblings again. he said everything that happened was my fault, that i had exaggerated, that no one would ever believe me. and i was scared … so i lied.

and when the door finally closed and the people who were supposed to help left, i had to live with the punishment of telling the truth. that’s when i learned that sometimes, survival means silence. that sometimes, the truth costs more than you can pay.

after that, i became really quiet. i kept my head down, did what i was told, avoided arguments. i learned to read his moods like weather patterns , the tone of his voice, the way his footsteps sounded coming down the hall. i learned survival before i ever learned love.

and then, years later, everything fell apart again. i was in college when my family found out my dad was having an affair. not just a mistake, not just a one-time thing but a whole secret life. and when it came out, he didn’t even fight for us. he left. he left C, he left me and my siblings, and he became the dad we begged him to be but for someone else’s kids.

i think that’s a kind of heartbreak most people don’t talk about. watching the person who hurt you go and give all their softness to someone else. watching them laugh, hug, play family, and realizing they had the ability to love  they just didn’t choose you.

for a long time, i hated him. i still do sometimes. but hate gets heavy. it sits in your chest and eats at you. so i tried to forgive him. i tried to rebuild something. but every time i tried, it felt like reopening a wound that never healed right. he never apologized. he never even tried to understand the damage he caused.

so i stopped trying. we went no contact. it’s been about a year now. i wish i could say it doesn’t hurt, but it does. there’s still a part of me that wishes he’d change. but i also know that maybe peace doesn’t mean getting closure. maybe peace just means accepting that some people will never become who you needed them to be.

and so i started rebuilding. i learned what love actually feels like ,  not the controlling, conditional kind, but the gentle, real kind. i found it in my mom, the woman he tried to keep me away from for most of my childhood. her love has always been patient, never demanding, never loud. i found it in my friends, in the way they make space for me without me having to ask. i found it in my art, in the things i create, in the tiny joys that remind me i’m still here.

he once told me he wished i was never born. that i’d never get anywhere in life. for a long time, i believed him. i let those words define me. but look at me now. i’m building something out of love. i’ve made a home, i’ve made meaning, i’ve turned my pain into something that breathes.

i used to think i’d never be able to talk about any of this. that it would always live in the dark, rotting quietly. but saying it out loud, even now, feels like taking back the power he tried to steal.

i don’t hate him the way i used to. i’m still angry, but i’m not letting that anger become me. i’m letting it go slowly, piece by piece. because i deserve peace more than i deserve revenge.

and i think the most beautiful thing about surviving is realizing that love can exist in your life again , real love, the kind that doesn’t make you question your worth. i’m learning to love in the way i should’ve been loved all along.

he left me, but i didn’t leave myself.

and that’s enough.

xoxo,

lisita

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author’s note:

if you’ve ever been hurt by someone who was supposed to protect you, please know it’s not your fault. the way you survived is valid. you don’t owe anyone forgiveness or understanding. you just owe yourself the chance to heal. and if this brought up heavy feelings for you, you can call or text 988  the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at any time. you’re not alone.