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I've been quiet the last few weeks. Didn't have much to say. Isabelle being gone; her double death: dying and then being killed again in the media - a lot for one person to take. And her friends; fake friends all just wanting a piece of her. And then, my dad. My dad who didn't know who Isabelle was until she died; who'd never made the link between her and the author she was; who went out and bought all her books; who came back to me with questions, questions I was hoping to never have to answer. To protect him.
I went over to his house the other day, with wine and cheese. It was his birthday. I left for the last time when I left his screaming at me behind. It was just so surreal. I heard him screaming all the way inside my car in the driveway...
Isabelle's first book was called 'Putain' or Whore. The subject is pretty evident; it was the one book I really didn't want my dad to read. It didn't help that he'd read another book and said that she wrote 'pornographically'... She didn't write that way at all; there was no sex in any of her books, nothing to get turned on by. But she wrote in a very crude way; in a way that makes country people blush and want to shield their virgin ears. I don't remember how we got in the argument, but I do remember the substance of it. He'd asked when I'd met her. I said 18, which was true. And then, for some reason we got to talking about 17. At 17, as I've written here before, I wasn't living with him. I was living in Montreal, but according to my dad, I was living with him.
I said 'I think I remember my life better than you, dad'. And that was the trigger. My dad has always had a rage issue - he snaps with a snap of the fingers. He started calling me a liar: 'stop lying! That's all you do! You've lied all your life!' I just got up. I told myself I didn't need to take this; I gathered my stuff, which made him - and I knew it would have that effect of him - get even more enraged. I tried to walk myself to the door but he got up and got in my face. Started yelling all sorts of things: you think your the center of the universe... you and your degrees... you always have to be right... you think I beat you... you think you're better than me... you think I'm crazy... you think, you think, you think... I didn't say one word after 'I think I remember my life better than you', except for 'stop'. I said it a lot: STOP. STOP. STOP. I felt like the 4 year old he used to terrify just by the fact of raising his voice. When he screams he becomes like this giant. He didn't stop. I got out. I cried all the way back home.
Back home I wanted to write him, but I decided not to. I think that's my forté: not writing things in times of anger. Just worsens the situation. So I shut up about it. I shut up about the fact that I understand why he deleted a year of my life. He deleted it because if I was living at home, there's no way what he knows - I know he knows - could have happened: I'd have been safe with him.