Letter to Dad

Dear Dad,

Thanks for the super impersonal ceramic snowman plate that looks like it came from the dollar store that you sent me for Christmas. Oh, and thanks for addressing it using my married name and being too chicken to send it to Mom's house where, no thanks to you, I was provided with a place to live after my entire life crumbled in front of my eyes. I suppose I shouldn't expect you to know that I've been going by my maiden name, YOUR name, again, because the last time we talked was when you called me to talk for a whole three minutes about that newsletter. You know the one. Your new family (the better one) was sending out a newsletter, so you wanted to be able to say something about the daughters you barely had a hand in raising. You called and specifically told me to talk about "something that's going well in my life," because, obviously, you don't want to tell the world that your daughter can't hold on to a man. Who cares that he was manipulative, abusive, and adulterous? It must have been all my fault, right? So I told you about my professional life and allowed you to flee the conversation.

I suppose I should be grateful, though. That Christmas present was better than what you got me for my birthday: a phone call that was two days late. I prefer the plate to the call. Every time I talk to you, it's painfully obvious that you're scared I'll start complaining about my crappy life again. As soon as I mention my divorce, whether the news is good or bad, you suddenly have to go. Well, I'm sorry my life sucks, Dad. And I'm sorry you don't want to be bothered by it. And I'm sorry that it's such an embarrassment to you and your perfect new family. Well, guess what! I'm embarrassed by you, too. I hate talking about you. I tried so hard for so long to defend you and the stupid things you do, but I'm done. I tried to get you to love me, but I can't. Sometimes I want to blame you for psychologically damaging me, but I don't. I know that you're just as screwed up as I am, and that's why you cling to the people whose lives look prettier on some stupid Christmas card. It's just an extra bonus that they happen to live clear on the opposite side of the country from your real daughters.

I'm pretty sure you don't read this, or even know it exists, which is pretty much why I chose to use this medium. Even with all the pain and anger I'm harboring, I don't have the heart to really say any of this to you.

I hope you've found what you were looking for.

Sincerely,

Who Cares?