Well done, dickhead. Australian proverb. Was my dad’s favourite saying. Might still be. He used it mostly when driving. Like say, if someone cut him off in traffic, or didn’t use their indicator, he’d yell, ‘well done, dickhead,’ out the window. If he could. If they weren’t within range of his booming voice, he’d say it anyway. Because, you know, it had to be said.
Oh yes, it was completely a sarcastic jibe. Not one you’d ever want to be at the end of. Sometimes it was dad’s players at the receiving end of a “well done, dickhead.” Which was when they knew they were doing a shit job.
For the record — I never actually call my dad, Dad. To be honest I don’t refer to him at all. Is probably why am spitefully refusing to use a capital ‘d’. We’re not exactly on speaking terms. Yet mentioning his name might give the game away. See, I’m trying to be anonymous.
Have been through quite the ordeal, really. Ten years of it. Am not exactly in the position to head off to therapy — while I no longer believe everything that has been indoctrinated in me, it’s still hard to take that step, you know?
From a young age I’ve always had writing. Was my go-to pastime when things got tough. It’s why I’m turning to it now — both a blessed relief and desperate need to purge.
Still in slight precarious position, mind, so won’t be revealing any names. Even my own.
Am a little embarrassed, really. Think everyone who has been sucked into a cult has that same feeling of humiliation. Which makes me a complete dickhead.
But then, I did get out. I didn’t drink the Kool-aid.
Well done, dickhead, well done.