A Poem for my Father

Before I share this poem, a Word.

Some people may wonder why a woman in my position would want to share so much rage so openly and so publicly, like I have been doing in my recent blog posts and poems.

After all, I’m supposed to be in a position of some kind of authority, offering some kind of guidance to those I am fortunate enough to work with.

Should I not have already processed these emotions years ago? Should I not be speaking from a higher vibrational state, so as to inspire and uplift others? What kind of leader is so unstable, so entrenched in the world of emotion and pain? 

My kind of leader, is my answer.

Coming from a place of perfection and being “healed” is not my preferred way to inspire and uplift others.

Instead I am of the opinion that the very last thing we need on this planet is another “perfect” teacher.

What we need instead are teachers and healers who are not afraid to get their hands dirty with humanity.

To dig their fingernails into the dirt and slide their feet deep into the mud and muck of human emotion. We need a kind of bravery. The kind that teachers of mine like Teal Swan and Ana Forrest have so courageously and wildly exemplified to the world through their life’s work.

To the women who have come before me and projected their booming, authentic voices from mountaintops, echoing through canyons and rippling through the air, piercing the hearts and spirits of the numb and the apathetic and the stagnant and the dead people of the world; to the women who have embodied Lilith despite persecution and paved the way for me to stand in my nakedness and truth…thank you.

The momentum I feel behind the bigness of my emotions is overwhelming at times. I have been afraid to make waves, afraid of the currents of energy and the colors and the sharpness of my words.

In equal measure, I have been afraid of the softness and the heat of shame, the vulnerability and fragility of my wounded heart exposed.

But it is this fear that has kept me small and distorted, sick and controlled.

Half of me here, half of me separated from my body and floating somewhere in the ethers, observing my empty human frame with sorrow. The grey lifelessness of following and placating and pleasing and numbing.

No more.

Today I am committed to life. I am committed to the truth of my personal experience and to riding the currents within me. I am committed to staying with me, with my body, the scene of the most ghastly crimes, but not the cause of them.

To those who receive me without judgment, I thank you. To those who judge, I thank you as well, because it is you who provide the fuel for this forrest fire inside me that sets my heart ablaze and lights the whole world up with flames.

This poem is not just for my father, but for you.


Sometimes I wish you would have killed me.

You are the poison in my body. It was never me or my pure vessel.

You are the dirty organs collapsing, the breath that catches along my jaw line when I sleep, the pinching and melting and muting of my muscles.

Sometimes I wish you would have killed me.

Left my two year old body in a dumpster somewhere, and saved me the years watching the slow decomposition of my innocence into what I am now. 

A faded polaroid tucked inside a ratted old book cover. 

I was pretty once. At least.

You poisoned me Daddy, with your snakeskin hands and pale eyes, you poisoned me and let me believe it was my own veins pumping all that black matter throughout my system. That I drank it willingly. Shame on me. Shame painting my body red.

Tell me, is there a worse crime?

Sometimes I wish you would have killed me.

You poisoned me with your soft kisses and I love you’s while you were taking my body for use like a hand towel and tossing it aside when you were finished. 

You poisoned me of the word Love. You poisoned me of family. Of men.

And all the men who came after you. Four and five and eight and ten and eleven and seventeen, twenty one.

You are a coward, Daddy.

And sometimes I wish you would have killed me.

You let me believe that I was the problem when I was in the hospital all those times. 

Sucking food through a tube because I wouldn’t eat. 

When I swallowed pills in a panic and mom called the cops and neither of you came to the hospital because you were so mad at me. 

Julia is such a sad case, you whispered. So depressed, so unstable. Why is she so sensitive? Why would she do this to us?

You let me believe I was the problem.

When your daughter was smoking black tar in strange placeswith older men and throwing up in trash bags she hid around her room, you let her believe she was the problem.

You sat on that couch on family group day at rehab every week and let me believe it was me who was the crazy one. 

Instead of you, 

you psychotic fucking animal. 

You’re so good at being nice. You showed the world your soft underbelly and everyone pet you, and told me how lucky I was.

You absolute piece of fucking garbage.

Your shame has stained my whole life and become a part of me that I can’t shake.

And I hate that. I wish I could bite it out of me, but I can’t. Puke it out of me, but I can’t. Burn it out of me, 

But I can’t.

Sometimes I wish you would have killed me.

My two front teeth are chipped from that night I threw up all those Whole Foods muffins you bought. I stayed in the room with your Guru’s pictures up in every corner. Incense for the dark ruler.

Those pieces of my teeth are all swallowed up now, flushed down the toilet along with the strains of bright blood from my torn esophagus and flowing into the sewer and I will 

Never get those back, Daddy, never.

Sometimes I wish you would have killed me.

Julia Friedman

Julia is an emotional healer and certified practitioner of the Completion Process. Her healing work focuses on integrating the inner child and finding a resolution for traumas and childhood wounding. She holds a BA degree in Child Development and a Master's degree in Human Development. Julia specializes in recovering from sexual trauma, PTSD and various forms of addiction.
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