To My Not-So-Dear Father

To my not-so-dear Father,
You brought me into this world.
You are half the reason I am alive.
When I was four, I began to realize something:
You slept downstairs and Mommy slept upstairs.
You were always mad,
and you laughed when I was in pain.
When I'd cry, you'd say:
"Be quiet or I'll give you something to cry about!"
When I was four, you moved out of the house.
You started living with a lady named Susan.
Susan had two daughters of her own,
Lindsey and Hannah.
Three months after you moved out,
me and my sister began to visit you at your new house.
Every other weekend we'd stay there,
and play with Lindsey and Hannah.
You'd play with Becca and Lindsey,
but not with me.
When you told Becca "Goodnight,"
you'd tell me not to come out of my room or make a noise.
I grew used to this.
Then, when I was six,
I grew very curious about the mothballs under the shed.
One day I picked one up, to show to Lindsey and Becca.
Susan saw me from the kitchen window,
and began yelling.
She ushered us all inside,
and up to our room.
Several seconds later, we heard footsteps;
You were coming up the stairs.
We all his under our blankets,
afraid of what was about to happen.
You came in, red-faced and yelling.
You hit me and shook me.
Even from under a sheet and a comforter,
you left hand prints on my arms and back.
Later that day, you said,
"If you tell anyone, I will end you."
I knew you were telling the truth.
The days went by, slowly, but steadily.
Every Friday morning before leaving for your house,
I'd sob into my mother's shoulder saying,
"But I can't go over there! Daddy will hit me!"
She would refuse to believe me,
until I said, "He'll kill me if you tell!"
As I turned into a pre-teen,
your mental and physical abuse got stronger.
Every single day, you'd tell me
how no man could ever love me.
How I was ugly, and worthless
and how my mom hated me a lot more than she loved Becca.
After hearing this so often, I grew to believe you.
You'd shove me up against walls,
shake me and hit me.
You'd twist my arm, making it sore for a week,
and leave hand prints across my arms and face.
When I was in sixth grade,
you shoved me into my bedroom door-frame,
giving me a black eye.
I told everyone that I got shoved into the wall
on my way out of the girl's locker room.
They believed me.
Your abuse tore me apart inside and out.
I now have diagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,
which I heard you say many a time
how that was the most tragic disease in the world.
I've attempted suicide more then once,
with you heavy on my heart.
I think about all this everyday, and more.
I still haven't convinced Lindsey or Becca of your abuse.
They'd say, "He was mean to all of us,
but he never really hit you.
You're re-writing the past."
Which stung just as much as your hits.
Dear father I never had,
you are now but a distant memory.
But the pain you still 'cause me to this day
thrives just as much as your corner of hell,
that God will one day place you in.
Don't forget that,
~~Mary Beth Foster.