Wish You Were Here...(wrote it awhile ago, just now publishing it)

I just got my new laptop. I love it. It is a Toshiba and it rocks. It’s a dark blue in some lighting and a black in others. It has a huge screen and is really easy to use. Plus it was all under 500 dollars. Yay for money saving.

Besides that, I have had lot on my mind for the last few hours or so. I couldn’t even read. My head is like a bunch of nothing. It’s all rambled together. Sometimes I just want to scream. Scream so loud that the entire world can hear me. That it makes my face turn red and then purple and then blue. I want my voice to go hoarse from all that screaming. And then I want to be able to stop. Stop screaming and feel better. That’s what I want.

If only it were that simple. It’s not.

My other aunt from my dad’s side contacted me. She wants me to go and visit them sometime. That’s great right? I would love to get to know them. And then, I think, why is it that my aunts can want a relationship with me, and my dad doesn’t? Ugh. I hate this. I hate feeling like ‘daddy’s little defect’. I always wonder what things would be like if he was still in my life. Would I be able to write the way I do? Is it the pain that he brings me that gives me my talent? I probably wouldn’t be chubby. In fact, I would probably be thin and beautiful. Like my stepsisters. They are so gorgeous. Dad has this odd fixation with size. I remember that from that time I stayed with him in second grade. But, would I be a virgin then? Would my morals have disappeared along with my baby fat? I can’t help but ask if I am the way I am because I am his daughter, or because he gave up that responsibility?

What is worse than asking myself that question? Knowing the answer. Knowing the answer hurts more than I can even pretend to explain. He didn’t want me. Doesn’t want me. Sure, we have the occasional conversation every three years or so. I call him or he calls me, and then we play phone tag for three weeks before we just give up. That’s my relationship with my dad. It’s peachy.

I will never forget that night in Canada with him when I was seven. I had gone to stay with them for two weeks, and we were taking a road trip. Going to different friends of his houses and stuff, one night a whole bunch of us where sleeping on the basement floor at one of the stops. There was a wedding and a lot of people were in town camped out throughout the place. It was the first night that I wasn’t crying from homesickness. I think it was because it was like a slumber party. I always did better with a group of people then with the just one on one when it came to sleepovers; more people to comfort me or something. Anyways, my dad and I were the only ones still awake and he was talking to me about Galen, my (at the time) soon to be stepdad. I don’t remember all of what was said, but I remember him telling me that it was okay to accept him as my father. That it wouldn’t hurt his feelings if I chose to call Galen “Dad”. I didn’t really get it at the time. It took a long time for the real effect of that to sink in. My dad was giving me up. You know, when the beautiful bride walks down the aisle on her wedding day, and the father gives up his daughter’s hand for marriage? Well, my dad was doing that, only it wasn’t for my wedding, it was for my moms.

Even though I get what all that that conversation meant, I still don’t get why. Why would he do that? Did he think I wasn’t going to need him anymore? I don’t understand. I wanted to crawl into his lap so many times throughout my childhood, and wasn’t able to, and now, at 18 I still want to. But worse than that, at 18 I carry anger so intense that I don’t even understand it. I should not be angry at him, should I?

See, I know the answer to that question too. Yes, I may have a right to be angry, but sooner or later I need to let it go. And preferably sooner. Only I have been trying to for so long, and I don’t know how. How do I get over something like this? It wasn’t like he stole my favorite crayon in Kindergarten, he stole my childhood. At least that’s what it feels like. Maybe he isn’t the one who took it. Maybe I just never let myself have one. All I know is that I grew up way to fast. I didn’t get to have fun, the way I should have. In the back of my mind, all day EVERY DAY was his face. A made up face, because I still don’t know exactly what he looks like.

I blame him. I think that is the first time I have admitted that. I freaking blame him.

I’m angry at him. I am hurt. I am confused. But mostly, I am just sad. Depressed. I want to know how to fix all this. And I just don’t think that it’s fixable, not at this point anyway. I don’t seem to have the right parts to do the proper mechanics.
Ugh. It’s just so…complex. So layered; full of too many different emotions. I really have no idea how I am supposed to deal with all these feelings