Six Questions

If I had to name my obsessive side, it would be Bessie… Bess the Obsessed. There are six unanswered questions that haunt me. They are questions that I really want answers to, but I don’t think they’ll ever be answered. They are questions that I get very obsessive over when I think about them, so I often have to force myself to just not think about it. It’s consuming, but only if I let it. Unfortunately, I won’t tell you what all of the six questions are because they are deeply personal.

My oldest unanswered question can still be answered, if my father ever chooses to be honest with me. I just want to know “Why were you so abusive?” I want to understand him. Don’t say that I can’t, because I can. Was it uncontrollable anger? Was it awful parenting from his youth? Did he grow up with violence? Was it adultery and/or jealously? Was it hate? Did he loath himself? Did he regret it? Did he hate mom? Did he feel trapped? UHG! I just want to know! I’ve asked him before and he will only say that he can’t change the past. He won’t tell me anything and it angers me so much. I’m not looking for something to make it all better… I simply want the truth. If mom was awful, then say so. If dad was awful and doesn’t feel bad about it, then just say so. I want the truth. But why? Why does this matter? I don’t know. I have already let go of the years of anger and yet… I still want to know. I suppose this question will burn bright within as long as he’s alive, because there is always a chance that he’ll confide in me. There will always be this rift between us as long as he refuses to let me in. I know that this question will never be answered.

My second oldest question is “Who is the boy that I cannot name?” Since I was young, I have dreamt about a boy who has always been so familiar to me. I know that I know him, but I cannot place his name. My mom suggests that it’s Tator (Tate), an early childhood friend who committed suicide when he was young. It’s possible, because I can’t remember what he looks like. I wish that I had a picture of him, and maybe then I could finally lay this mystery to rest. Alas, this question has a very rare chance of being answered.

And now we get into the questions that I won’t say. This one is more because it’s a secret. I want to know, more than you can ever imagine. The question was formed not all that along ago and I never expected it. Again, what would knowing do for me? I would know the truth. I would understand. I have the power to answer this question, but the longer that I wait, the further away the answer is. One day, I won’t have the ability to get my answer. I have to decide if getting the answer is worth the harm that it could potentially do. It’s laced with secrets and it’s complicated. Still, it’s going to be a question that haunts me for a life time. I know I’m going to regret letting it go, and yet, I still wait…

There is another question that has perhaps already been answered, but I am distrustful. I don’t believe it. I feel like my feelings are being spared, rather than being told the truth. I think that I might know the real answer, but I question myself. Do I really know? Is the answer I’ve been given, the truth? Maybe he doesn’t know the answer himself, and that’s the part I fear the most. How can I understand if he doesn’t even understand himself? If it’s a lie, than I yearn for the truth. This is something that I think can be resolved, but I’m pessimistic about it. I’m trying to just let it go.

I have a question that I thought about whether or not to share it. It’s a question that I didn’t have the courage to ask for a long time. Perhaps, if I’m going to ask the question, it’s time to be open about it. “Did he commit suicide?” It’s not what you are thinking… it’s not a suicide vs murder. When we were told that he killed himself (this is a different person than Tator), I had a hard time believing it. I wondered if he had just moved away and didn’t tell us. I never talked about it, not even to my mother. He just disappeared from our lives one day. What happened to him? Since growing up, I’ve talked about my friend who committed suicide, who was so polite and happy and I had no idea it would happen. Yet, on the inside, I’ve always questioned it’s truth. Was it a lie? Or have I secretly been in denial for the past nineteen years? I don’t know his family anymore and I don’t think I’ll ever know the truth… or maybe it’s time to accept that he’s gone (regardless of his true fate).

My last question is riddled with sadness and regret. It’s a question that is impossible to answer. There is no one to ask, not really. It’s something that makes me very sad and I hate thinking about it. I wish that I knew and part of me doesn’t want to know. Either it’s a happy ending, or an awful one. There is one person in the world who knows the truth, the one who is responsible for her fate and he cannot be trusted. I’ve resolved myself to imagining a happy ending. I hold this thought in my heart forever. At this point, I’ll never see her again (she’s not with us anymore) and knowing the truth isn’t worth facing the filth that I will not speak of again.

I suppose I could say that I’m obsessed with truth and understanding of the things I cannot control.

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