PVCC Puma Press: March 2006

This day was just like all the others. After school, I would sit and wait for hours for my father to pick me up. As I sat, I watched the sky change from a crayon blue to a gloomy dark night sky. Most of the time, my principal or the local police officers would eventually drive me home, and I would just make excuses for my father’s absence. On one occasion he sent someone he worked with, who I didn’t even know. The feeling that he didn’t care about me just kept getting stronger, for I wasn’t a stranger to this kind of treatment.

“I never held you as a child,” he told me once during a casual conversation. I didn’t want to believe it was true. But the fact that he would actually say it hurt me all the same.

One time I overheard him say to my mother, “She’s turning into a whore just like her sister. You better go upstairs and kick her ass before I do.”

Another time, during a fight, he said to me, “Shut up before I smack you!”

And there was the time he actually had tears in his eyes. “When I looked at you just now, I thought you were Vincent,” he said. Vincent was my brother who passed away from leukemia five months after I was born. Dad always made me feel as if he never wanted me and only wanted Vincent back. He was always praising Vincent, and I was jealous. I wanted dad to feel the same way about me. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t he love me the same way he loved Vincent?

May 2004

It was a sunny, beautiful spring day when I apprehensively walked to my parents’ house. My boyfriend had dropped me off a block away because that was what I wanted. My mind was searching for the words I would say to my father, and I was hoping the walk would help clear my thoughts. But every step my feet took forward, my mind took a step back. I didn’t want to confront dad, because I knew I would end up crying and running away from him like I always did.

Earlier that day the vice principal of my school called me to his office. My dad had called and told him that, for the past two months, I had been living half an hour away from school in Parsippany, NJ. My dad said I shouldn’t be allowed to graduate if I was not living in the school district. Now, the vice principal informed me, in order to graduate I would have to pay for the remaining year’s tuition, which I could never afford. Furious, I left school to confront my father.

As I reached the bend in the road, the windows of my former home were dark, like always, and they gave me a sense of what was to come. But something told me to keep going. As I walked into the kitchen, I expected to see dad sitting there like he always did. My father was predictable: you could always find him yelling on the phone and sitting in the kitchen. Then I heard his voice. It was coming from the living room. This time he was on the couch, yelling on the phone to one of his business partners.

When he saw me walk into the living room, a surprised look came over him. I foolishly thought he would get off the phone and talk to the daughter he hadn’t seen for months. Instead, he kept talking on the phone as if I no longer mattered. I should have known he would act this way. He always did. But I would not let him put me down any longer. I had to regain control of my life.

“Get off the phone,” I demanded.

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	'You're an animal that should be locked up in a mental institution!' he yelled back, and for a moment I believed him
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“Don’t you dare talk to me like that!” his voice boomed, echoing throughout the house and instantly bringing back the bad memories I harbored.

“How could you do this to me?” I said, trying to match his demanding tone, but I felt tiny inside compared to him.

“Do what?” he said back, acting puzzled. He always pretended not to know the hurtful things he did to me. And he always denied what he had actually done.

“You are making it so that I won’t graduate from high school!” I said, regaining my confidence. “What kind of a father does that to his child?” I continued.

“You’re an animal that should be locked up in a mental institution!” he yelled back, and for a moment I believed him.

“You’re the animal! You’re the one who’s trying to ruin my life! I’m your daughter!” I said, but the damage was done. His words ripped me apart from the inside out. Before he could break me any more, I turned and left. I wanted him out of my life forever. I kept telling myself that I didn’t even care if he died and that I would never go to his funeral. But I had no idea that day was approaching fast, and it would mean a lifetime of regret for me.

Five Months Later

My boyfriend Gregg and I were sitting on the side of the road, trying to relax from the long ride. The motorcycle sight-seeing trip to Washington D.C. from New Jersey wasn’t going as well as we planned. We were getting tired fast, and we still had a long way to go.

“Your sister left a message on my phone,” Greg said, handing me his cell.

I heard her voice, concerned and shaky, telling me that our father was very sick and in the Intensive Care Unit at Hackensack Hospital. I was immediately filled with dread. I knew I had to go see him, even though I hadn’t talked to him for five months. I had left my house on my 18th birthday to move in with my boyfriend while my parents were on vacation. I had been dreaming of my 18th birthday ever since I was a little girl, because it meant that I was an adult and I could legally leave and my father couldn’t do anything about it.

I told Greg what my sister said, and immediately we got on his bike to go to the hospital. I didn’t know what I would say to dad when I saw him. I wondered if it would be different now that he was sick. I would soon find out, even though I wasn’t ready.

Every step I took to his hospital room felt forced. Once again my mind was telling me to turn and run, but my feet kept pushing me forward.

And then I saw him. Tears billowed up in my eyes like balloons and then floated down my cheeks. Instead of hugging my dad, I hugged my mom. There was something in the back of my mind that didn’t want to let me console him. I felt bad for him, but I still wanted him to hurt like I did.

Immediately it was like it always was with him. He demanded to know where I was living and with whom. I told him only vague details, for I had programmed myself not to give in to him. I was in control of my life, and I refused to give that back to him. I was foolish to think that his predicament would change him.

“I’m sick because of you, “he declared. “You put me in the hospital.”

That was the exact moment when he got back control over me. I really felt that it was my fault, and sometimes I still feel that way to this day. My mother wanted me to tell dad how I really felt about him before he died, but I couldn’t do it.

“I just want to say that I love you, and I want to hear you say it back,” I told him.

“Okay. I love you too,” he said.

To my surprise, I could feel that he really meant it. Normally he would never tell me that he loved me, and if he did, he would say it very nonchalantly, like “you know I love you.”

That was the last day I would hear my father speak. He passed away from congestive heart failure three months later. My entire family and I were there with him when he passed.

Since his funeral, I have been confused. I regret wholeheartedly that I never talked to my father during those five months before he was in the hospital. I desperately wanted to tell him how he made me feel my whole life and how his words scarred me forever. But I also wanted to try to fix our broken relationship. Even though he emotionally abused me, he was still my father and I could never run away from that.

I spent my whole life hating him, and when he died, there was only wasted energy left. How was I supposed to feel now, when I had programmed myself to hate him? It’s not okay to hate a dead person — let alone your own father. I blamed him for everything, but now I feel I only have myself to blame. I should have given up and let go, but that’s hard to do when it’s your father. Your father is your blood.

Even though I still am dealing with all these emotions, I know one thing is for sure. His cruel words will never leave me, even from beyond the grave. They have been permanently etched into my mind. His issues with control lead him to emotionally ruin everyone around him because of the way he felt about himself. But I know that sometimes words can leave bigger wounds than cuts, and you should look into the mirror before you say something hurtful to some one else.