Father,

I remember fights in the house for as long as I can remember. I remember cowering in fear in my room, plagued with nightmares. I always got these terrifying dreams of dinosaurs and giants whenever you and mother would start fighting while I was sleeping. These nightmares, whenever I got them, taught me how to be strong. I remember running though the forests I created, the houses and cities, lavish and huge, to escape the monsters that represented you. I never could, and I would always wake whenever the T-Rex got me; whenever I felt myself being consumed by the jaws and snapping, gnashing teeth of this violent prehistoric creature.

In a way, I thank you. You taught me to be strong. I also found myself standing in front of you, in front of you and mother, screaming at you to stop. To stop because your baby girl was scared. Because I hated the fighting. I knew at a very young age fights like the ones you and mother had weren’t normal. They happened too often and you left too frequently.

Sister moved out, and left me to fend for myself at a young age. Much too young for a girl like me. Part of me loathes her for it—you forced her to leave. She wanted out of that house as much as I wanted out of life. Your baby girl, at 11 years old, inflicting self-harm and wanting to die every time a fight erupted, every time she didn’t do well enough that she knew her precious Daddy would get mad at her.

Despite what you put me through, I think your breaking moment was when I informed you about my tendencies that lead your baby girl to hurt herself. I was 13, standing in front of you showing you the scars on her wrists, and what do you do? You screamed at me. You scream at me while I was standing there at my weakest point, your telling me I had no right.

In a way, I hate you. I hate what you’ve put your family through, what you’ve done to me. I have trouble trusting men now, thinking they’ll be like you, bound to hurt me. I have a hard time opening up to people because of you telling me I had no right to react the way I did.

But all in all, I love you. You’re my father and I need you. You’ve led me through elementary, high school and now to college. You’re seeing through to make sure that I do what I want. Despite everything you’ve put me through, you’re being a Dad. I remember when the house burnt down and I saw you cry for the first time. How you held me close and told me “It’ll be alright, baby girl. Everything will be okay,” and how I trusted you so blindly because I didn’t know what else to do. I trusted you because I knew that you didn’t know what else to do, either.

Despite my hard time opening up to people, I’ve found someone that adores me right now, and I adore him. I’m starting to rely on him more and more. He holds me close, like you did the day of the fire. He’s seeing me through to what I want to do, just like you.

I could never tell you any of this because we aren’t close. But I know we are more alike than anything else. You’ve taken care of me for 18 years, and despite how scared of you I was when I was younger and what you’ve done to me mentally, I love you.

From,

Your Baby Girl, age 18