Wall wins

I punched a wall yesterday, my hand today is hungover from the fury that led me to do it, the dull throb on my knuckle.

I should be better.

More patient

More kind

More gentle

I’ll never live up to the image I have in my mind of goodness, of greatness or fulfil the ideas I have about myself, fury burns in my stomach and my clench jaw bruised from overuse.

White solid calcium shatters under absent awareness of the gentle soul, sent here to light the globe instead, burns structures and pulls life from skin and flesh.

Two hands twist a body until it tears, claret water flows into an open mouth fat beast while laughter erupts from observers all around, cruel intent leads to guilt of an innocent child being beaten by its own youthful wonder, now sunk beneath black waves and fear of the deep, buried and never found until a bed of death awaits.

I want to stop and give up but I can’t, I want to be kind and loving but I can’t, I want to say I’m sorry but I can’t and I want to stop being angry but I can’t.

“If I did it all over again, I wouldn’t have kids again” my Dad said.

I was in the family car, a black rover with sports seats that smelled like plastic and sweet leather. We were driving on our way to play rugby, my dad in the driver’s seat and me in the front passenger seat. The light was dull and the clouds overcast, it was a Sunday morning. My light brown teddy bear in the footwell with a dark adult footprint on its front sat shoved on the floor.

My Dad who sat next to me, calm and relaxed wearing an old light blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms exposing hair and dark skin from being outside. He had dark blue denim jeans and white rebook trainers. His greying dark brown hair slicked back. Thoughts of not being enough, or being wanted rushed through my mind, doubts about whether I should be here on earth stabbed at my gut.

“You’ll understand one day when you have your own kids” he said.

Now I look at my hand, aching and sore. I know what my dad meant, all these years lost thinking he didn’t want me.

Instead he was telling me how hard it is to be a parent, to give up the life that could have been for a life of doing loads of shit I don’t want to do, being a constant slave and being needed.

Feeling like I should be grateful because ‘IVF’ and “aren’t you lucky”

Oh fuck off.

It’s possible to love, protect and want something without always feeling grateful or lucky, sometimes it’s just fucking hard and being angry doesn’t make me ungrateful.

And that’s where I am today

Running a business

Renovating a house

Providing for family

Running day to day life

And punching walls.