1 PREMISE

Where to start ? I have long sought the cause of everything, to no avail. Words trying to spring out of my throat, to no avail. They were undeniably stuck in the depths of my being, tumbling my heart and mind into dark chaos. They ask to flee however and those for far too long. But how can I describe this hidden evil from the beginning of my existence ? This feat seems impossible, this permanent sigh emanating from my being does not illustrate it well enough. I have also developed this dreary ability to hide all my darkness behind a dissonant joy. Who could hear my inner chaos constantly destroying me ? So few people.

I also have this tendency to protect myself constantly, never dropping my guard in front of anyone. My empty gaze alone betrays me sometimes. Alarming look, but that a blue line fatally deceives. My body also often betrays me, and only because of my fault. My distress is painted on him. I materialize it since childhood, by stains colors of azure at the beginning. These marks hidden under dull clothes, all of which still do not know the existence and which haunts me yet. How can I forget the rage of my clenched fists falling on my lonely and frail child's body ? I remember that strange pain, those bruises covering my belly, those spasms of anguish that shook me all over. A sleepless night of anguish and sorrow, against a background of punctual pain.

And then hunger supplanted the azure. What's the point of feeding a specter? The arrival of my eating disorders have sunk my unwell. Yet everything seemed so beautiful to me then. I had found a way to hate myself more, while occupying my sordid mind. Sweet euphoria of a reduced body, ode to protruding bones and a sickly pallor. But this part of my life deserves some of what I hardly dare to describe as my book. Book with no apparent purpose, still in search of meaning. But which I'm writing the first part of that night.

Where to start ? By the presages, I suppose. The presages that we will describe as a childhood. Childhood without innocence however. I share the unfortunate fate of these children who have experienced illness far too soon, those who have seen him settle at the very dawn of their lives and who have never left them since.

I was one of those children whose fathers were part of what are commonly referred to as chronic depressives. I interpret this term as incurable. Describing one's own father as lost in advance can be sad, pessimistic or cruel. But how to refute the irrefutable? I realized early on that my father would not change, and especially that I would not change him. Unfortunately, it is not for lack of trying, and this with all my strength. What have not done, what have I not given for this weakened and dull being that I dare not even call "Dad» ? I grew up to the sound of his cigarettes, the sound of his coffee maker and his medicine. And yet. I' loved it, and I love it now, despite everything.

I have long been convinced that this love was one-way. It seemed obvious to me. I was telling, "My father doesn't love me." I had so much hope to make him proud, to show him this blind love of child. This shiny hope in my eyes was confronted by the immobility and pallor of his. And when I tried to spend a tiny moment near him he rejected me fatally, showing the destructive indifference that I had always known to him. We had some good times, however, those precious moments when we seemed to be just a father and daughter as common sense dictates. I keep so much sweetness from these moments. But the fall was even more severe. I would have liked to put a little sparkle in those eyes washed away by evil, warm those rough and icy hands firmly clutching rancid cigarettes.

I tried to be happy on the surface, hoping to make him happy for a few moments. To no avail. He didn't like me. Then I realized that no one could love me. My simple childish logic has finally assimilated this fact, and I have nurtured this infamous guilt to exist. This is what growing up alongside such a disease, you get beset by guilt. "What if it's my fault?"

I felt like an incurable and undesirable tumour.

So I began to hate myself totally, certain to deserve this fatherly coldness. Yet I was loved, but it seemed absurd in the face of this indifference, boredom and constant rejection. And this man whose shadow I only know, I'm not even able to blame him today. I hated him forfor a while, a few years before, when my heart still had the strength. I see this miniature version of me tearing up the only photo or we seemed happy. I remember, my face bathed in tears, painfully waving these two distinct pieces, waiting for a reaction. To no avail. I was only given the same grin of indifference. Nothing mattered. I had demonstrated the tearing of two existences, meaningless, without even a reaction. So what's the point?

I wish I'd never done such an act. Still years later, my hands tremble as I write these lines, and tears get stuck in my throat. I would have given anything to put those pieces back together. All. And yet they lie in my mind, mixing with the spleen. From then on, our relationship continued to be colder and what little we had to say was suddenly silent. Had I ceased to exist in his eyes? Probably in a way. And even now I line my wall with childhood photos, the only vestiges of a chaotic relationship, and this for the only curious purpose of atone for my fault. How can I not blame yourself for not saving you? And yet I am aware that this task was not mine. How do you do that as a child?

Yet this father never ceased to destroy me with arid words that he would pain me so much to write here. Described as cruel and "without any humanity" I believed his words, religiously. I would be lying if I said I don't believe it anymore. Insults, gestures, words and harsh looks punctuated my childhood, leaving a bitter aftertaste in the depths of my being.