Poems and Other Shit

The Wheel of Emotions - Letter to my dad

An analyse of my father in response to the Wheel of Emotions.

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You, my dear father, spin the Wheel of Emotions with indifference. Let me show you, explain to you, with examples.

Fear: You instil in us from a young age, with angry outbursts. You seem to like to play with this emotion a lot, for my mother cowers away from you, keeps her phone tightly in her hand and the police on speed dial.

Anger: A regular on the wheel these days. You have prompted many fits of rage, but the most painful are those which occur late at night when I am in bed, alone, with only my phone as outlet. I write long messages that I mean to send, but never do.

Sadness: The pinwheel spins, tinker, tinker, tinker, slowing, landing on sadness. Again. I feel a certain sense of grief for your absence, pining for you, like a loyal dog. I am depressed when I replay the moment you left, over and over in my mind. I see your facial expressions perfectly, the way you avoided eye contact, cowardly. But I see the bliss in your face as you throw your bag into the back of the car and back out of the driveway, speeding away in the distance, free. I am left in your wake, grief stricken and depressed and full of sadness.

Joy: You like to please, to win me over with affection. There are moments when you succeed another day, until you will spin the wheel again and switch emotions. The moment when you gave me white gold and diamond earrings, I felt a sense of joy, for you did care after all, and valued me enough to want to spoil me. And when we worked on my car together, and I wore your oversized work boots, I felt a sense of happiness at having a practical dad who wanted to help. I was simply joyful for spending the time with you.

Disgust: You've been lucky, dear father, for the feeling of disgust has evaded my childish innocence. But I am older and wiser now, looking at you from an outsiders perspective, and a not a blind little child. I am disgusted with your betrayal, how you soiled our family name and abandoned us for a promise of something so inherently wrong.

Trust: I trusted you, as a child, for my father would throw me into the air and catch me. He would seat me in the passenger seat as we four-wheel drived up steep and dangerous hills, and I never felt fear that we would crash. I trusted you up until the moment on our family holiday when you shoved me to the ground, and I sat on the concrete footpath sobbing, while other holiday goers looked on, appalled. I was only eight. You stood above me, fists clenched, shaking and angry. You have not landed the wheel on the elusive trust since, for you abandoned me at my own graduation, and left me without a parent to dance the parent-student dance with.

Anticipation: I like such an emotion, when it is flowing through me, energising me with optimism and happiness. I confess, I am a foolish child who believes in happy endings, and I eagerly anticipate the day when you will walk me up the aisle, and the moment you will hold your grandchild for the first time, and when you will tell them embarrassing stories from my childhood. But I also confess with gainsay that I have the fleeting idea of asking my uncle above you to walk me down the aisle, for he has never caused an emotion in me which is uncomfortable and unwelcome. But do not worry, dear father, for I still blindly cling to anticipation.

Surprise: The moments of surprise are countless. When you gave me expensive earrings as a token of how proud you were of me for finishing school. When you, unasked, paid for my car insurance. When you gave me a new phone, and drove four hours to take me to visit my friend. But all of these things are material, and it is the emotional surprises which resonate more. When you got remarried, when you started to favour her nephew above us, when you moved away and distanced yourself. But most of all, when you left us. And me, only eight years old. Not once, but twice, ten years later when I had started to forgive.

So, dear father, I do wonder where I am to go from here. Plutchik maintains that these are the eight basic emotions, but some may argue he forgot love.

Now, what do you think?