Daddy, Daddy, You Bastard, I'm Through

Dear Dad,

I don’t know if you still read this. I don’t know if you ever bothered opening it again after the first time I sent you the link. I had wanted you to read about my frustrations with you, no matter how mean spirited they may have seemed. It took a lot for me to work up the courage to share that with you, but I needed you to hear me because I never feel like you really hear me. I wish that you could understand that there’s a difference between listening to a person and actually hearing a person. I wish that you could understand how to understand. I wish that you could be bothered to read my thoughts here since you never bother to access them anywhere else.

On the rare chance that you are reading this, I don’t want another email critiquing my writing or making some lame attempt at a joke. That poem I wrote about feeling like the apple you would never deem good enough to keep, that wasn’t about being wasteful, dad. It was about how much you’ve hurt me. For an English teacher, you have a lot to learn about interpreting a poem, and while I may not be a published writer, or even a good writer, it should still matter to you. I should still matter to you.

I’m sorry that I missed your phone calls early this week and forgot to call you back, but when I did make time to call you tonight, I wish that you could have welcomed the conversation instead of attacking me with shame and guilt for “ignoring” you. I had a really wonderful talk with a friend of mine about how I feel so unworthy of my friends and the beauties in my life. He tried to help me figure out why I’ve spent my life feeling inferior to other people and tonight I finally have an answer for him. It’s you.

I wouldn’t feel so ashamed all of the time if you hadn’t spent the last twenty years convincing me of all the things that I should feel ashamed about. I wouldn’t feel so guilty about everything if you were capable of feeling guilty about anything. I knew I never wanted to hurt people the way you hurt me, and so I tried to be the exact opposite of who you are, no matter how extreme the difference was. Even that I feel guilty for. I feel guilty for having people who love me and for needing people who love me, because for as long as I can remember, you’ve shown me how undeserving of it I am. I feel guilty that I’ve allowed you to do this to me, and I feel guilty that I care. I walk around with so much guilt inside me that I’ve somehow convinced myself that everything that’s ever happened around me is in someway my fault. I’ve spent most of my life apologizing.

But I’m not sorry, dad. I’m not sorry that I don’t fill you in on every detail in my life. You called me tonight “worried” about the condition of my life, but you’re about twenty, almost twenty-one, years too late. And then I feel guilty for being so stubborn, because in theory, I believe that it’s never too late in life to make amends with people, but I shouldn’t be the one feeling guilty about this. At least, not the only one. My life wouldn’t be in the condition it’s in if you hadn’t done such a lousy job, and that’s the truth.

It’s funny that you mentioned your concern about me becoming depressed. If you had been listening, really listening, to a word I’d said over the last three years, you would know that I’ve been depressed on and off all that time. You would also know, that I’ve handled it, no thanks to you. In fact, I had finally gotten to a point where I wasn’t feeling that way anymore, and then you had to go and take that away from me again. I can’t even sleep tonight because I’m so angry with you.

The worst part is that the only reason you’ve taken this sudden interest in me is because you have a new woman in your life. Yes, she’s lovely, and I am truly and sincerely happy that you’re together. What I’m not happy about is this sudden “my daughter and I are best buddies” act that you’re putting on for her benefit. You suddenly want to know what’s going on with me because when she asks you about me, you don’t want to have to admit that you don’t know who I am at all. And you don’t, dad. You don’t. It was embarrassing when we were at dinner with her and you responded to everything I said with “oh, really…” as though it were news to you. It’s embarrassing that it is news to you, but it’s not my fault. This isn’t my fault.

How dare you discuss my problems with your girlfriend. You don’t even know what my problems are, and you don’t have the decency to ask me first, or to withhold the conversation you had about me from me. I don’t care what she has to say about me. She’s not in my life. She’s in yours, and you’ve made it quite clear that those are separate entities. I’m not sure why you expect me to revel in your happiness when you can’t even name one single thing that makes me happy, which is not a difficult task for anyone who has ever spent ten minutes with me, let alone twenty years.

I suppose that I should be grateful that you never hit me or ran out on me, but abuse and abandonment can take on different forms. It's nice that you help me out financially when I need it, for the most part. I appreciate that, I do. I know that I can depend on you if I get into any trouble that doesn't require an emotional response to fix, and I thank you for that. I guess I just really need more. It's painful to need something from someone who can't give it to you. It's even more painful to need something from someone who WON'T give it to you. Why is it so difficult for you to love me as I am?

I’m glad that you’re happy. Really I am. I’m glad that you found this woman that you care about so deeply. I just wish that you could care about me a little too. You remember me, right? Me, the girl whose plays and concerts you used to attend and then list for her all the ways she could have been better on the ride home. Me, the girl who has never been smart enough, or pretty enough, or good enough for you to love. Me, the girl who struggles each and every day to feel deserving of anything good and real in life. Me, the girl who wanted more than anything to have her daddy’s approval, foolishly believing it was possible.

Remember her? Remember me? I wish that I could believe you did. I wish that I could believe you cared. It’s funny, with all of the things you’ve convinced me of throughout my life, that was the one lie that never stuck. It was easy to persuade me into disliking myself, but you never even tried to fool me into believing you didn’t feel the same way about me. You never even tried. Well, I'm done trying too. It's not worth it, all the guilt and pain and heartbreak. It's just not worth it. You're not worth it. I'm done.

Did you hear that, dad?

Your daughter in title only,
Frankie