Open letter to my biological dad:

Hey dad, how are you?

I wouldn’t know since I haven’t seen you in 10 years.

Do you recognize me? Can you tell I have lost almost 50 pounds in 4 months? Can you tell it isn’t a choice but rather a serious illness? Can you tell I suffer from anxiety almost every day and every night? How about this…can you tell that in the last year I have thought about suicide at least once a day?

No, of course you can’t. You don’t know me. You don’t know who I am and how much it hurt when you abandoned me so long ago.

I can honestly say I am thankful to no longer call you my dad. My dad is the man at home with my mom and sisters making sure my family is happy and supported.

But, I want you to know how I got here and the massive role you play in who I am today.

From the beginning my parents knew I had problems. When I was younger I would have panic attacks. Neither my parents nor I had any idea what was happening.

To clarify, you left when I was two. During this time in my life, my mom had remarried and I had never seen her happier.

Bruce came into my life after you left. My mom found her soulmate and he found his. I’m happy my mom found Bruce because you did nothing for her. Sure, you gave her a baby (me) but you were high or drunk most of the time, and I remember my mom telling me that you used to leave for the bar in the middle of the day and come home at random times during the night. Did you even want me? Did you even think about what your decisions did to me at such a young  age?

My mom says she never loved you. In some ways I wish she did, so that at least I could’ve been the creation of two people who loved each other. Instead I was the creation of two people who wanted out of their miserable life. For my mom it worked. For you – well, clearly it made no difference.

The memories

I am a bit confused with the years after you left  because I don’t know the exact timeline of when we saw each other or what we did. I just have some memories that replay in my head.

The first memory I have is going to that old house with all those antiques. I remember sitting in the old horse and wagon while you and your friend would leave to go “do something.” I loved that house – I remember being so happy because it was so fun and cool and I was with you. We went to this house a lot, at least on the weekends, when you were sober enough to come see me. I believe this memory was around the time I was 4-6.

The second memory I constantly go back to is when we would go to your house (which was different every three months) or the basement you were renting out of. You would order pizza, open up my brand new Barbie, and we would watch Titanic…over and over again… all night.

The third memory is of us at the petting zoo in Markham. It was very small and had maybe 10 animals. But I loved it! You used to put me on the donkeys and I would go around in circles on them for as long as you would let me. You would grab the bunnies from the pen and let me hold them. Grandma and Papa were there too.

The forth memory is a bundle of memories that I can somewhat describe as just one. This memory is the most vivid and most painful. This happened almost every other weekend, except for those rare times written about above. This was the last time I tried to see you. I think I was either 8 or 9 and I was sitting by the window with my overnight bag. You were supposed to pick me up at noon but it was already 2 p.m., and you were still nowhere to be found. Finally you called; mom left the room and then came back in, gave me the phone and this is what I heard:

“The van broke down again and I can’t come get you today – I am so sorry. Daddy loves you so much.”

Funny enough, I think your van broke down every other weekend. Years later, mom finally admitted to me that you were too drunk to come get me all those times. That didn’t shock me.

The reflection

I really want to move on from all this built up anger I have towards you but I just can’t. I can’t move on and I can’t forgive you right now.

One day maybe I will and maybe we will have an actual relationship. Who knows?  I don’t doubt that in years to come I will forget these memories and they will become less clear and I will be able to forgive you. That day, when it comes, will be a good day.

But until that day comes, we are still here and I am still trying to express and explain my hurt and anger towards you.

I contemplated writing to you, multiple times. I couldn’t get myself to actually sit down and think about you. The only reason I wanted to write to you was honestly just to rub in your face that I am actually somewhat successful. You didn’t completely fuck me up.

I wanted you to be proud – however, just writing this piece took me over a week because it is so hard to just sit and think about you without feeling anxious and upset.

I don’t blame you for my anxiety and my depression. I am sure it has lots to do with the wiring of my thoughts but I don’t blame you. I now know how unhappy you were. Not even your daughter could change that and I get it.

The conclusion

I have been wondering what will happen once I post this. Will I feel better? It’s nice to think that this will help me move on but it won’t. You were my dad and you left. Writing it out won’t get me over that dramatic experience. Just like when people get in plane crashes. When they recall their experience, does it help them move on? Maybe for some, but for most it’s just a way to organize thoughts.

So that is what I am doing, I am organizing my thoughts into a blog post. I have felt very overwhelmed this week with my personal problems and school. I wanted to put my focus towards something that I could feel good doing.

 “Why do you want people to know such personal stories about you?”

This question constantly is brought to my attention by friends, family and even strangers who email me on my blog. They constantly wonder what I get from posting my personal life on social media.

You might not understand because it’s not something many people feel comfortable doing. But for me, if you already know everything about me, then I can just be myself. The point is I don’t care that you know these details about me. If I want to get better I need to face my issues in the past and present and treat them like any other story I would write.

This is me. This is my story. And this is about my struggle with my biological dad.