My father raised me to believe that my safety lied in making men feel safe with my intelligence . I was too smart for them and playing dumb protected me from either their visceral nature or their eventual, physical exit from my life. It was strange to know my father saw me like a game: one he could manipulate like my mother, in terms of turning our feelings against ourselves. For my mother, it was her ego: my father consistently telling her she was better than him, and, in turn, taking the best from her. For me, it was my heart and a hyper-awareness that I was willing to sacrifice my well-being and the right I had to demand my father to provide for it, just to get that damn hug. Yet, I always felt part of my father’s growing mania and mental rage against me was that we both knew I was lying. 

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