Dear Dad... --- I can't. The task of typing is simple, but he doesn't deserve the title.
Let me try again.
Dear Jeffrey Sampson,
No. That's still not right.
To whom it may concern:
You've forgotten my birthday almost six more times. I'm scared that my financial aid won't come in time for me to start college right away, making you capable of fully exiting my life.
This is your daughter, Ashley.
I don't know why I've thought about you so much lately, but you're there. Well, the memory of you. I can still hear your voice and see your increasing baldness. Normally it doesn't phase me when you're brought up, but lately I've just been fixated on reminiscing. It amazes me that unless you're mentioned I forget that my biological father isn't the one living in a house with me, giving me advice and ruffling my hair. No, that's my stepfather Craig. He wasn't there when I was growing up, and despite your absence I still have random fragments from my memory of you. You were never the advice type; the only time you tried you were drunk and verbally abused me. You were very physical in that you liked to wrestle and encourage me to be active, and even though I clung to my mother more I still remember my tomboyish side feeling the need to constantly impress you. I remember the feeling of being on my toes, but that only started after you taught me how to ride a bike. Remember? I do, somehow. We were still living in military housing back in Hawaii, and I was officially off training wheels. The problem was that I couldn't figure out the brakes and drove around forever, tearing up because the fun was over. I crashed - I vaguely remember a green field - and I came stumbling back crying, asking for a bandaid. You, however, told me that I needed to toughen up and I don't think I got that bandaid. After that one incident I became a person who was/is afraid of showing weakness, especially around you.
The irony of this is that you ended up hurting me the most and a barrier that I had up for years fell dramatically. When you and Mom separated I heard that you said all sorts of spiteful things to Mom, including comments about Amanda and I. There I was, a kid, already trying to adjust to the situation and suddenly I'm hearing that my own Dad thinks I'm fat or what have you. The point isn't that I was hurt, no, it's that for some reason your opinion mattered to me. I entered middle school with a complex for crying out loud. I looked at my feet as I walked and I followed the wrong crowd - but aren't you proud? I didn't have sex or get into drugs. I cut myself once, but I don't think that's a nice topic so we'll move on. It was eighth grade by the time I realized that things weren't going to change and that I needed to move on. We officially got out of contact with you, we didn't visit you in Hawaii, Mom started dating Craig, and I was starting off on my self identity crisis. I got plenty of friends and finally started realizing who I was inside and out.
Yadda, yadda - right? I'm not writing this to tell you my life story. You would know it, or at least mostly, if you'd actually stayed in my life. By saying this I don't mean that I wish you stayed with Mom, however. Hell no. I'm still scarred from seeing her crying after the way you treated her. I know for a fact that Craig makes our family happy, and you had your chance. Yes: our family.
Perhaps it was visiting my best friend's Dad's house that made me think of you. She actually visits her father year after year in spite of her parents' break-up, and I couldn't help but feel slightly envious. I may not like you personally, but it was admirable to see a prospering relationship continuing on. The worst part is that my friend and her dad constantly fight, and sometimes I just felt like yelling at her. At least she can see and talk to her father, at least she knows that he loves her.
Now the hard question: do you love me?
Don't answer. You could be an ass and say no, but I think you'd say yes merely for show. I don't want that. Above all, I don't want anything from you that doesn't take a lot of effort. I want you to acknowledge that you have a daughter, but the only time you realize this is when you send off a check. I want so many apologies, from both you and your wenchwife Teresa. I was told that she was resposible for a lot of mishaps that have caused tension between you and Amanda and I. I will never forgive her (or you, if responsible) for sending that letter to Mom about wanting a blood test for me.
Why would she - or you - think that I'm not your daughter?
Out of all the complexes you gave me, that was the worst. I went from a mindset of not being good enough to not being worthy, and finally I plummeted ultimately into a spiraling whirlwind of emotion. That night I went on a rampage of destruction, literally breaking things and acting violently until I collapsed into a paroxysm of tears.
Then I looked at my feet.
There I was crying my heart out, but then in one instant I realized I'd won. You see, when I actually did "hang out with you", I remember sitting next to you and propping my feet up next to yours. More importantly, I remember all of the relatives that told me I had your "chicken legs", feet, and toes. Back when I did get upset when you were mentioned my mom's favorite thing to do would be to pinch my toes and tell me how much they looked like yours - and they do. Isn't that funny? I remember your feet more than your face.
We don't send you pictures, so my feet profile is the only update you're getting. If you want to actually take the time to build a relationship with me, right now I can't promise you I won't slam a door in your face. I've learned not to expect anything from you, much less get hopeful or dangle on a thread. I have so many negative feelings towards you.
And yet.
A part of me can't hold onto hatred.
Rather than hide my past, I'm facing it right now in this letter. I don't care what type of reaction you get out of this or if you have some brilliant epiphany.
This letter is for me, not you.
I turn nineteen next week, and I won't be a thirteen year old waiting by the phone this time.
Have a nice life.
Your Daughter,
Ash.
/// writing letters is a good way to express things I usually find hard to communicate. The history I have with my father is my most hidden inner turmoil, and the feeling I achieved writing this is indescribable. As I said, this was for me so take it as you will.
disclaimer: no pity parties.
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