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 to often and you left too frequently.

Sister moved out, and left me to fend for myself at a young age. Much to 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 for.

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 scream at me. You scream at me while I’m standing there at my weakest point, your telling me I had no right. After that, everything started getting better. You and mother started fighting less, you left less often if at all, and the nightmares started going away. 

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’re my daddy, and you kept me safe and continue to look out for me, your baby girl. 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. You taught me to be strong and to believe in myself. And whenever sister would lash out at me-in words or violence-you would reprimand her. You are law in the house, and you would protect me from her. Mother never could do that. But you would stand up and tell her to shut her mouth or leave.

And despite my hard time opening up to people, I dare myself to because I need to have blind, relentless faith in someone, sometimes. I’ve found someone that adores me right now, and I adore him. I’m starting to rely on him more and more. And you should be happy to know he’s nothing like you, Daddy. He would never hit me, and he doesn’t do drugs like you once did. 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.

You’ve lead 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 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 17 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 17