an open letter to my father...

words you'll never hear and never understand

Dear Dad,

This isn’t the first time you’ve been on the receiving end of a long-winded bit of my soul, of which you have no capacity to bear.

I learned of your limitations in the hardest way, but for now, I’d like to start at the beginning.

I, of course, have no memory of you and Mom together. Save for a few stray photos and a diary she kept leading up to your wedding, the rest is up to sparcely shared stories and imagination.

You didn’t have to marry her. And you certainly didn’t have to try as hard as you both did to bring me into the world, so I suppose I’m grateful to you for a chance at life.

But seriously, what were you thinking?

The degree to which you were damaged could really only spell trouble for your future offspring. I guess Mom talked you into it… You never really did learn how to stand up for yourself.

It’s not your fault, so naturally, I’m conflicted. How do I hold empathy and apathy together now, having grown up with your bullshit but loving you still?

Your mom was a nightmare, someone – something – no child should ever have to endure. Her psychosis, the drugs, and the unhealthy emotional attachment she harbored for her only son. You were her best thing. You were her worst thing. And she let you know it, let you too be conflicted, holding two halves of yourself that I don’t think you were ever able to make whole.

I’m sorry she did such horrible things to you. No child deserves to be blamed for their parent’s delusional and irrational behavior. I should know.

Here’s where you lose me, though. How did you knowingly have someone like Mom walking with you through the fallout, and all the while you’re entertaining the manipulations and entrapment of D (my then future step-mom)? Grown as I now am, I’ll admit, I can see the resemblances between D and your mom. Ever the “love” you thought you deserved, right?

I found your letters, as you know, the ones you saved from the fire.

300+ emails you sent to D during your affair. The sick little names you called each other, Sabine & Smokey Bear. Lady Macbeth & Lion. (ew)

“so how is it that you and L come to be dating? I have to beg, borrow, and steal for a few minutes. I’m trying to remember, but I don’t recall me ever being able to swing much more than one meeting a week with you. but then, I didn’t have the balls to show up post-sonogram when a dinner date had already been planned.” (sonogram appointment to see me, still unborn)

“yes girl, I too am plagued by thoughts of all the fun we would be having together. It would be magical. music, art, literature, travel, food, wine, play.”

“I’m going to burn in hell, and my only consolation is you’ll be down there with me”

“here is why we have to stay with the plan, even though it will be hell: I have been overtaken by a wave of grief, sadness, depression, so powerful I can hardly breath. watching myself annhilate and unsuspecting and fundamentally good world. she is so much better than us. that is what just tears me to pieces. and what can I do, the blood is already dripping from the knife. nothing but the awful consequences remain now.” (she being, my mom)

“okay, little June needs me, it’s her 3 month birthday”

-all pieces of letters sent from my dad to D. (I’ll spare you the mentally scarring lines that a child hates to read about a parent)

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