Butterfly Cry

I was sixteen when I realized that I hated my father. Though, I suppose to understand that, I have to go back to when I was younger. All my life, I wanted to be daddy's little girl. I wanted him to be proud of me, to take notice of me. I wanted him to come to my games and my concerts. Mom would give him dates when he remembered to call and ask. Maybe once a year I would see him. but I was always hoping, always praying. I would cry myself to sleep when he didn't come.

Unlike most children, my parents were never married. I don't know if they ever considered it, but I know that they never tried. He never proposed, she never said I do (to him). My mother was seventeen when she had me. I turned two months old the day that she graduated high school. We still have pictures of me there. I was the first child, for both parents. Later came the first of my two brothers. Fifteen months later came my first half-sister while only a month later came my other brother. Already, my father was not a faithful man in his relationships.

In the end, there would be five of us. And it always seemed to me that he loved his two younger daughters so much more than he loved me. This might or might not have been true, but I could never seem to shake the feeling from my heart. Especially when he would promise to come and visit. Those nights he would forget, I cried myself to sleep.

I was twelve when we moved from California, the place that I had grown up. I could not say that I was upset to be leaving my father. He was never around after all. It was so easy while I was away from him to say that I would face him the next time I saw him and tell him that I didn't need him. I remember him calling very little in those first few years.

He came to our apartment for my eighth grade graduation. I was so happy. I stayed up until he came and then threw my arms around him. All the promies that I had made were forgotten. I should have knon that I was only setting myself up for a terrible fall, but I couldn't help it. I still wanted to be daddy's little girl so bad that it hurt. For that short time, I felt like I was good enough. And my mother let me have that even though it hurt her to have him in the house. He treated her like she was seventeen again and she did it all for me. I have never told her how much I love her for that sacrifice.

As the years went by, we moved a few more times. I continued to grow up, but only phsyically. I still had a lot to learn, a lot to change. Whenever my dad would call I would find myself slipping into my room for periods of time. Sometimes it would be for hours I would just disappear. I would hide on my bed writing or just listening to music and not moving. It took everything from me just to try and talk to him. Because inside I still needed him and I couldn't take it. He didn't understand. He didn't know. And I was afraid he didn't love me because in the end, he never said it.

One day, I'm not sure exactly how it happened anymore. All i know is, that night I realized something terrible. I went forward before the church, terrified. My hands were clasped in my lap. People I knew came to sit beside me, ready to hear what I had to say before it was announced before everyone. It was hard, but the words came in the end. I admitted: I hate my father. The words simply slipped out. Everything that needed to be said. Prayers were given, and I thought that would be the end of it. With faith, I could make it through.

It wasn't the end.

Not even close.

Throughout the next week, I began to think. I told myself every day (or almost every day) that I didn't hate my dad. And after a while, I could believe it. That was until something else came to light. As much as I hated my dad, there was someone else that I hated just as much if not more. I hated myself. I had been weak enough to fall for everything. I had put myself in this situation. On some level, I just thought that I was being silly. I was seeing other people's situations and projecting them on myself. It didn't stop me from going up the next week at church and admitting I hated myself. I sometimes don't wonder if it was because I wanted attention. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. In the end, I don't know if knowing the truth would have changed anything.