What Happens After You?

The Letter Series: Part One.

What if I wrote letters? Shameless, uncensored, full of all my emotions and feelings letters? Ones that I'd never send because I know the things I might say would hurt some people but ones that I still hope they'd read some day? Sometime when I'm dead. Which feels really soon sometimes.

Hey Dad? I just thought I'd let you know that your daughter has about six years worth of questions for you. Six years worth of questions, and billions and billions of words. But even the greatest writer in the world would never be able to capture all of it. Lucky for you, your daughter isn't the greatest, but in her mind she's one of the greats. That's something you missed. I'm not a crazy mathematician, sorry. I probably won't be a lawyer or a doctor, or even have lots of money. I'm just me. And me means writing. Me means a piece of paper and a whole lot of pain. I used to be so angry with you. Actually, I was angry with the entire world. I wish I could say that was still true. I wish I could still be angry with you. I wish that when I think of you, it's something other than the ache of an old pain that still kinda hurts, but isn't really raw anymore. But wishes don't come true. If they did, 7 year old me would've been a mermaid. If wishes came true, I'd be with you. If they came true, you'd hear me. You'd hear my questions and be able to answer. Questions like, Did you think of me? Do you see me now? Are you disappointed? Is it better? But you don't hear me, do you? Our line of communication was cut off a long time ago. But the line will always be open on this side. I'll always be talking.

I want you to know how I feel. I want you to know that I forgive you. I don't know how, or why, but I do. Will that ever bring comfort to you? Do you care to be forgiven? I would. But I've always been so afraid that I'm disappointing people. I think you were too.

I want to tell you that you're missing out. You're missing out on my loud dumb laugh, and my love for music, and the way that I write. You're missing out on watching me run bases exactly like you did. You're missing the way I love, and you're missing making fun of me. I have your smart ass brain and your smart ass mouth. So I guess you're missing that too. It's been so long that I barely even remember what we were like when we were together. But I know that I was never really a daddy's girl. As much as I wanted to be. I don't think I understood you. But the more I look at myself, and the more I understand who I am, the more I realize how much of you lives inside of me.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for me, and I'm sorry for you. I'm sorry for everything that occurred in your life up until that point. I'm sorry that I've only ever been able to see what was right in front of me and not the big picture. Knowledge means experience. And little me didn't have any of that. Thank you for giving it to me. I was thrown into all of these things that were challenging and painful and disgusting, and I had to sort through them all, because if I didn't, they would have weighed on my heart and in my head for the rest of my life. I'm not saying that they still aren't there. But when I think about you, I don't want to follow you anymore. Because I'd rather feel abandoned than want to be dead. Sometimes I wonder if a piece of my soul followed you. I can work through everything that I have with you, every little piece of anger and pain. But there will always be a part of me that hurts because of the little girl that dwells there. A little girl that's still angry and confused and terrified.

But thank you. It only took me about 6 years, but I've learned what it means to be me. Me without you. The empathetic one. The kind one. The appreciative one. The one that loves her family, even when she's angry. The me that's learned to love herself, and the me that's self reflective and drives her own way through her hurt. The me who writes.

So I'm sorry I'm not a doctor, or a lawyer, and I definitely don't have large amounts of money. I am your daughter though. And that automatically makes me great.