That Kind.

Made the horrible, yet oft repeated mistake, of going home for Sunday dinner. Too many imbalanced electrolytes between four or so walls for the fragile state of mind I exist in. Going there, being there, thinking of there (the place I wished to escape for as long as a can recall) nearly always results in some sort of mental degradation that phases me for days. Every moment leading up to today was disasterous, I should have know to leave sooner. The dinner table provides too captive of an audience for his own good. I learned several years ago to not allow his words to affect me, but they can sometimes be so biting, especially at a time when I'd just like to know what it would be like to have a real father. The kind that asks you how your day was, is proud of your accomplishments, doesn't judge you for mistakes made, is satisified with you when you try your best, treats you as his daughter and not his enemy.