Dear dad...

All I’ve ever wanted was for you to love me like you love both of them. When I was younger and tiny, I figured you didn’t notice me because of my height – everyone seemed to forget about me every once in a while.
I enjoyed spending time with you in public because those were the only moments you actually seemed to care for me… I was your daughter in those moments.

I spent my whole childhood fighting for acceptance. I wanted you to accept me, dad, but you never did. I remember being around the age of eight… I didn’t like soccer at all, yet every Sunday I’d go to the game with you – just so maybe one day you’d appreciate me like you appreciated my brother for that reason.
When that didn’t work, I tried joining you during the week when you were watching a game on TV. I was bored out of my mind so I made up funny names for the players and the teams – instead of smiling at me you told me, and I quote you on this; “If you keep that up I’ll never take you to a game with me. That’s embarrassing.”

I guess that really shattered my hopes of ever fitting into your ideal image of a daughter. Whatever I would do, it just was never good enough for you. No matter how hard I tried. And even though my mind told me to give up hope, my heart didn’t give up until September 2012. And even now, as I near my 18th birthday, I still cherish that one good memory I have that involves you.

I was very young, I don’t know how old exactly… I had spent the day at a friend’s house and waited at your office for you to finish work. Since mom was late you decided to take me to the playground and you let me play and made jokes… you made me laugh.
I remember feeling happy in that moment and I honestly miss it.

Why does everything change with you behind closed doors? I know I’ve said some horrible things to you, I’ve done horrible things and I probably deserved most of the things you told and did to me in return.
The difference between you and I is that I regret everything, though. You prefer pretending as if nothing ever happened, and you know what that makes me feel like? Like I have no reason to be scared, no reason to be hurt – as if everything is in my head.

I’ve always been used to being forgotten, that’s just what you get for being the youngest child out of three – that’s what I told myself, at least. I remember when I was eight and we all had to switch turns to be on the computer… the amount of times I had asked for my turn and someone else would take it. It eventually got so bad that mom had to make a time-schedule. I guess I was never worth much.

I grew up with a distorted vision of what unconditional love is supposed to be. I grew up in a family that is completely torn apart on the inside but will never let it show to the outside world. The things I grew up with are exactly what defines me today; I don’t believe in a lasting love nor will I ever let anyone see how broken I am.

When I was thirteen years old, I had an addiction to cutting myself. At first I did it to get a release from the pain I was holding inside – it felt as if every time blood would drip from my wounds, my problems were hidden in those blood drips.
Eventually the pain became more of an addiction. I didn’t just cut when something bad happened at home… I cut on a daily basis until I got used to the burning feeling it gave me. At that point, the burning feeling in my wrist just wasn’t enough anymore; I wanted more. I figured that maybe I could cut so deep that I’d see my vein, I wouldn’t cut it open though – I just wanted to see it and know I had control of my own life.
So I started my new project, every night before I went to sleep I’d cut in the same wound. Every night, with a razor that was covered in dark, dried blood. Thinking back at those times now, I honestly wonder how my wounds never got infected… or maybe I just never noticed?
When opening the same cut every night, and cutting deeper, didn’t give me enough thrill anymore I figured I’d cut away some skin. So I made a new cut and shoved my razor on my skin, tugging at it… That was the first time I felt such an intense pain from cutting – it actually made me tear up.

I never ended up cutting the skin away or reaching my veins because my mom took away my razor… but that didn’t stop my addiction, I would scratch my wrists or rub it against sharp corners. I just wanted to feel pain. Although, after my razors got taken away, I did stop doing it for the hell of it – I only sought for the pain when I needed a release.

But what you may be wondering is… why did your thirteen year old daughter cut herself so often? I bet you won’t expect this answer, but you are the reason, dad. Yes, you.
I wanted you to love me… instead you did everything but that.

I remember asking you for a lip piercing, your reply? “Okay… when you’re eighteen because then you don’t ever have to set foot in here again.”
Or that one time you were mad at me for not cleaning my room… I was sitting on the ground, my head hanging low as you were yelling at me how I’d never be more than a worthless cleaning lady – because those people are too low for you, right?

Every horrible thing you ever said to me will haunt me for the rest of my days. It’s just memories that I’ll never be able to forget, just as I’ll never forget how much hope I had for you to love me. It’s a disappointment I’ll never be able to live with.

But you didn’t stop at only words; did you dad? After beating the living shit out of me, you knew I was fearful of you… and you toyed with that! Can you recall the amount of time you chased me to my room, yelling things at me… then when I’d hide behind my door, you’d push it open and slam it several times with my small body behind it. Because I recall every single time… you did it five times over the course of two months… and every single time you’d lie to mom, tell her nothing happened.

Or that one time, you had to explain physics to me… and I didn’t understand soon enough for your liking so you kicked me and punched my arm… I couldn’t use my muscle properly for months after that hit. I remember it all… I dream about it at night and I’m scared. I’m not only scared to be alone with you but I’m also scared to let anyone touch me because what if… what if he or she has the same intentions you do? What if they are going to hit me? I’m battling with fear because of you, dad.

But the fear of love isn’t the only one I struggle with… I’m also afraid of love because I don’t see how it can last. You and mom don’t love each other. You sure as hell don’t love me… you’re supposed to love me unconditionally and if you can’t even love me… why would someone else?

You can say I never gave you a shot and I just try to ruin this family, and God knows what other insults you’ve thrown at me in the past… but I will never forget how hard I kept trying, even when you’d hit me on a regular basis. I kept trying… and at some point it started getting better… until I accidentally found a paper, written by you, it had every thing I ever did wrong on it. You kept a list of my bad behavior… consider this my list.

Dad, do you remember August 2011? Because I do… I remember simply asking you for money, so my sister and me could get something to eat. You were watching TV and ignored my question… so I asked again. You told me to shut up but I wouldn’t do that… I told you there was no food and we needed money. You jumped up and started yelling at me. That was the first time you ever lost it when someone other than me was home.

I ran away from you, to the other side of the room… you chased me around the large table until I stood in the corner of the room and you stood in front of the door. The yelling had caused my sister to come look… she stood behind you when you said these next words to me… “I’m going to kill you.”
In a desperate attempt to save me from you, a monster, my sister grabbed your T-shirt. You told me you were going to kill me again… then when my sister started yelling at you, you gave in… you sat back down on your couch and left me completely shaken up.

My sister rang mom, who was at work at the time. You were so calm when you asked her why she was calling… you told her there was no reason for it but she did it anyway, causing you to roll your eyes.
My sister then took me out for the day. It took me four hours to stop hyperventilating and I didn’t want to go home ever again.
And do you remember May 2012? I bet you don’t… it’s the day I asked you a simple question and you tried to punch me in the face twice.

Honestly, I figured that I’d learn to live with all of this eventually… but ever since 2008 it’s only gotten worse – the only thing that kept me going is knowing that my mom was always by my side…