Father
Smoke curls around me as I sit here, pen in hand, trying to untangle the mess of emotions that have been suffocating me for years. The smell of weed and stale air clings to my clothes, a familiar comfort that helps me confront the demons that haunt me.
My mind is a jumbled up puzzle, pieces scattered everywhere, and I'm trying to make sense of it all. It's hard to think about him, to even say his name out loud. It's like saying it would make it all real again, like the pain would come flooding back, and I'd drown in it.
My dad. Ugh, even the word makes my skin crawl. I hate him. I hate him with every fiber of my being. I hate that he's a part of me, that his blood runs through my veins. I hate that I have his eyes, his nose, his stupid crooked smile. I hate that I'll always carry a piece of him with me, no matter how hard I try to shake it off.
He left us when I was 11. Just up and left. No explanation, no goodbye, no nothing. Just disappeared like a ghost in the night, leaving my mom and me to pick up the shattered remains of our lives. I was so angry, so hurt, so lost. I didn't understand why he would do that to us. Why he would abandon us like we were trash.
As I grew older, I realized it wasn't just about us. It was about him. His addiction, his selfishness, his inability to be a decent human being. He was a drunk, a liar, and an abuser. He made my mom cry, made me feel like I was nothing. He made me feel like I was the reason he left.
I've tried to block it out, to erase the memories from my mind. But they linger, like a festering wound that refuses to heal. I remember the way he'd stumble into the house, reeking of cheap beer and stale cigarettes. I remember the way he'd yell, his face red and twisted in anger. I remember the way he'd hit, the way he'd make my mom whimper and cower in the corner.
I'm so angry. I'm so angry that he gets to live his life, free from the consequences of his actions. I'm angry that he gets to move on, to start a new family, to leave us in the dust. I'm angry that I'll never get to have a real father, one who loves and cares for me.
Sometimes, late at night, when the music is loud and the weed is strong, I'll let myself feel it. I'll let the sadness wash over me, and I'll cry. I'll cry for the little girl I used to be, for the innocence I lost, for the family I never got to have. I'll cry for the love I'll never get to experience, for the father I'll never get to have.
But in the morning, the tears dry up, and the anger returns. I'll push it all down, deep into the recesses of my mind, and I'll put on a mask. I'll pretend like it doesn't hurt, like I don't care. I'll pretend like I'm not broken, like I'm not still that scared little girl, waiting for her dad to come home.
I'm tired of pretending. I'm tired of being strong. I'm tired of being alone.
I wish I could hate him less. I wish I could forgive him, forget him, move on. But I can't. I'm stuck in this cycle of anger and sadness, and I don't know how to escape.
All I know is that I need to keep moving forward, one step at a time. I need to keep my head up, my heart guarded, and my soul intact. I need to keep telling myself that I'm worth more than the love of a father who never loved me in the first place.
I need to keep telling myself that I'm enough.