Okay, so I finally went and wrote the long letter to my dad...please read, and tell me what you think. I don't know if it will do any good, but at least I will have had the opportunity to say my piece. I will send it hand written, btw. And I will send some kind of sentimental gift with it for Father's Day.

Dear Dad,

It’s Father’s Day. And I know I’m not the best (and that’s an understatement) of sending cards and presents on important dates. I try to be better about this, then I slide back again. But I digress.

I am writing this letter, which I’ll admit is long, because I want you to understand what my life has been like through my eyes, as a young child, an adolescent, then a young adult, and now adult. It’s not about right or wrong. I need you to understand how my perception of events, how “my truth” has affected my life.

You and I, as you know, have had a serious “disagreement” (let’s put it that way), going back to the rental of the condo, but I want to leave that aside for a moment and let you know a little bit of what it was like being your daughter.

When I was little, I thought you’d always protect me. When we got out of the truck to walk anywhere, my hand naturally fit into yours and I felt safe and protected there. I remember always wanting to be holding your hand because you were MY daddy and I loved you so much.

But then I remember trying to sleep at night, with my head under my pillows, listening to you and mom scream and yell and bang tables and walls about everything from the trivial to the problems me and my brothers caused. I wondered what I had done wrong, and I felt like everything was my fault. And if I could only do better, and be a better daughter (at 6) that all the problems would go away.

I remember coming home from school every afternoon and rushing home to watch cartoons with you on the sofa, while you napped and ate cookies. In fact, if there’s anything I remember about my childhood, that’s one of the biggest memories. Watching cartoons with you (not noticing your snoring).

But the good was always mixed with the bad, and the bad wasn’t just bad, it was scary. If I did something wrong, you would scowl at me with such HATRED that I would cry on the spot and run off to my room to cry. I remember as an adult hearing you joke about this with people, but to me it was NOT a joke. I thought my father loved me, and yet so often he looked at me with outright hatred. And I didn’t know how to make him love me again. This was the beginning of a pattern of abandonment. In this case, it was emotional, but abandonment all the same.

When you went to fight in the Iraq war, I was terrified. It’s not like you hadn’t taught me EVERYTHING about airplanes. I knew you flew refueler jets, and I knew refueler jets were major targets. Every night for months I shook with fear and couldn’t sleep, kept up with the worry that my daddy wasn’t coming home because some bad man named Saddam Hussein was going to kill him, When we met you on the tarmac when you returned, I hoped I would never have to lose you to a war again. And I don’t mean die, I mean lose your presence.

We moved to Florida. You and mom continued to have marital problems. Michael, Ben, and I got caught up in the middle of all this. Sometimes we were the sources of your fights, and they were violent fights. Slamming walls, slamming fists on tables, slamming doors. It was scary. I began to feel like I lived in a war zone. I tip toed around everyone’s emotions and tried to be the perfect child, always keeping my room clean, getting the best grades, and never breaking rules, hoping that by doing so, you would still love me, despite what I heard you fight with mom about regarding me every night.

I don’t know why, but you stopped hanging out with me. You stopped having time for me. We didn’t go to the store together. There were no more daddy daughter square dances, and you made fun of me and shamed me when I got my first period. Opening the door for Ben and Michael to do the same. I began to feel abandoned emotionally again.

Even though you came to ever winterguard performance, and every dance concert, I always felt like you felt forced to come, like you just came to show you were a good dad. I don’t know if it was because you weren’t good expressing emotions, but it contributed to this feeling that I was a burden to you, and you wish you didn’t have to participate in anything I was doing. I was heartbroken.

When you and mom finally broke up, I didn’t see you for months, maybe a year. You never wanted me to visit. And mom was severely depressed and suicidal, yet I was left to deal with that aftermath, and you never wanted to see me. I felt not just emotionally but physically abandoned. It’s a recurring theme in our relationship, from my perspective. And remember, perspective is about how I viewed things at that time in my life, as a teenager, not like you viewed it as an adult.

When I went to college and you wanted me to move in with you…I was fine with that because I thought we had an okay relationship. Then you had Vicky move in, and it was clear to me that you had manipulated me to move in so you wouldn’t have to pay my rent per your divorce agreement. I felt used.

When I graduated from USF, you came to celebrate, but it was clear you didn’t want to be there. Ben didn’t come at all, neither did Gramsy and Grumpy. At the time, I understood because they were coming down for your wedding ceremony. But then I also wondered, why did you have to overshadow my big moment of graduation by scheduling your wedding so they couldn’t come to both? That really upset me, but my feelings never mattered. As you always told me: don’t be disappointed. Well screw that. I was disappointed. And I was allowed to be disappointed and even upset. It doesn’t mean I don’t accept it, but I can still wish it was different.

Then I was off to LA. And the weirdest thing happened. Ben graduated from some technical school, and you forced me to take off work (when I was strapped for cash as it was) to come to his graduation. And, wonders never cease, Gramsy and Grumpy were there for his graduation. Another abandonment and failure. My accomplishments were nothing compared to Ben’s because he was a boy. They even paid for a huge celebration afterwards.

And that brings us to what no one wants to discuss. Ben was a drug addict. And you know and admitted this. Did it ever occur to you that my room was right next to his for years? Did it ever occur to you that he was violent towards me, daily threatened to kill me (and I don’t mean in a joking way, I mean in a fist in my face, grabbing my collar threatening to beat the living **** out of me way) DAILY. When we went to Wolfson together, he didn’t look out for me like an older brother should, he bullied me. He hit me on the head as I’d walk past. Later on when I lived in LA and he came to visit, he made fun of me for gaining weight, which all the men in our family felt perfectly fine doing all the time. I’m not sure if you see that this is not a healthy environment for a young girl to be growing up in, but it isn’t. The emotional abuse, the physical abuse, it was real. It happened.

Then you and mom divorced, and you physically and emotionally abandoned me. You were nowhere to be found until you wanted me to move in with you so you didn’t have to pay rent. And you accused me of manipulation.

I won’t deny, Dad, that whenever I have needed to be bailed out, you were there to throw money at a problem, but I needed so much more than that. The money was the least of my problems. I needed a father I could depend on and know that he would be there emotionally for me no matter what, not just when he felt like he loved me that day. Your love always felt conditional.

When I had my breakdown, you were ready to throw money at the problem again and move me down to Florida. Then you put me up in a garbage hole condo community where there was a recognized prostitution ring, drug dealers (I know, I met them), all sorts of illegal activity, etc. And I was supposed to be thrilled with that, while you put Amanda Francesca up in a nice place and spent all your time renovating it. And on top of that, I really cared less about what my complex was like, I moved to be closer to family, but I wasn’t allowed to come over. You refused to let me spend any time with you. Vicky wouldn’t let me come over. Here I was, abandoned again. I was better off in Missoula where I had friends at least checking up on me and coming to visit. Instead I was utterly alone and getting worse. Abandoned, as I said again.

Then I talked to you about Astro’s replacement. You agreed and asked me to wait a while. I waited a while, and then an opportunity came along, so I adopted the dog. You went back on your word and kicked me out immediately. Now, let’s forget the lies you told about me in the process of getting this dog. You could have told me to get rid of the dog, but you didn’t. You just said get out. This wasn’t about the dog at all. If you couldn’t have complete control of my life, then you weren’t going to be there for me. Abandoned again. I tried everything I could do to appease you, you called me manipulative, refused to come to ANY reconciliation, still not even suggesting I get rid of the dog, and kicked me out. You had already abandoned me by not spending any time with me or providing any emotional support as I fought my illness, and then when I tried to do something to help myself, you abandoned me again.

That’s your M.O., Dad. If you’re not in charge, you walk away. If you don’t make the decisions, you walk away.

I remember a drive up to Gramsy’s where I was asleep in the back of the P.T. Cruiser and apparently Vicky asked me something. You began fuming because I didn’t answer, but I had answered, but you couldn’t hear me because the windows were open. You pulled over, got in my face, refused to let me exit the vehicle and physically intimidated and threatened me. When I was 17, Mom and I got in a fight. I locked myself in my room because I was afraid of physical violence. As if to prove my point, you busted my door down. This is real physical violence, Dad. From you to me. You have been physically violent towards me. And that’s not okay. And it’s not something someone just gets over, not when it’s built upon years of violence and abandonment.

You try to tell everyone I have bipolar so that you can appear blameless for my psychological issues. I don’t have bipolar. I grew up in a violent household, whether you want to admit it or not. My safety was threatened frequently on a daily basis, and that’s where PTSD comes from. That’s where my depression comes from. That’s where my panic disorder comes from.

The point of this letter is not to point a finger at you, though. Because regardless of the mistakes and failings, I still remember the father who held my hand crossing the street. I still remember the father who let me stay out on the boat fishing for 3 hours because we were having the best time of our lives. I remember the Dad who helped me build a pinewood derby car that beat all the boys.

I’m not apologizing for the dog. I’m not apologizing that you didn’t know you couldn’t rent the apartment out (that was on you, not me, you should have read your contract), and I know for a fact you made a little bit of money on the sale.

The point of this letter is that I want you to understand and try and at least see my life from my perspective. To understand that while we experienced the same events, that they had very different reactions on us.

People ask why I don’t have a relationship with Ben. Ben was an abuser. I know he’s clean now, but never once has he apologized or owned up for terrorizing me my entire childhood. That’s not how older brothers act. Not in healthy families. And if he’s truly clean, then he would want to make amends. I offered to visit him when he got hurt, and he refused, and I’m assuming it’s only because of whatever lies you told him. Which is kind of laughable because I only offered to go see him out of duty. He was my abuser. I could happily never see him again.

Michael and I have our own differences, that have been slowly mending. I have visited him in LA and the boys on my few trips there.

There is a terrible hand-me-down trait of abandonment in this family. And I will admit, I’m not innocent of it either. I abandoned my nephews. I abandoned my mother for a time.

The only way I see this family remaining a real family and not a façade is for the emotional and physical abandonment to stop, and for us to talk about conflicts and resolve them without knee-jerk reactions where we run off and stop having any contact with each other.

Dad, there are so many things about me that are from you. My desire to know how things work, not just accept that they do. My love of Star Trek. My leadership skills. Beef rice a roni. My love of animals. My body, well, that’s from your mother, but I’m grateful for it all the same. My work ethic (both you and mom). My desire to always be prepared. (The girls at work always come to me for safety pins, tweezers, a knife, bandaids, etc.) Knowing how to start a camp fire and set up a tent. And not being afraid to camp by myself (my peers barely even know how to camp much less would they ever go out camping by themselves – they don’t even know how to use a camp stove!). Doing a pre-flight check on every vehicle before going anywhere. 😊

I love you. And this letter is not to place blame, it’s to try and help you stand in my shoes for a few minutes and see my life as I have seen it.

I have no intent to send this as a letter of shame or blame or to make you upset. I just want to create some understanding. And hoping that maybe, we can begin to move forward, and get back to how things were 30 years ago, when I knew you would always protect me when you took my small hand in yours.

Love,