Dear...

Today is the 10th anniversary of the day my father shot himself. I was 14 years old and had no idea he was suffering at all much less so much that he wanted to die. It was literally like one minute I had this normal life and the next I was living someone else's nightmare.

You were no fucking help. You still aren't.

Do you remember how you told me he was dead? I came home from a friend's house and you were sitting there in the kitchen at the table and you said before I could even put my stuff down "Your dad killed himself this afternoon. Don't go in the bathroom, it's a mess. He put a gun in his mouth and blew his brains out."

Don't deny it. I will never forget it. There was no sympathy there for him or for me. Did you even care? You were irritated that you had to make all these arrangements, like he intended to be an inconvenience to you.

I get that you were angry and felt abandoned. But you had a kid to take care of and to help get through it, but you were so goddamned matter of fact and mean about the whole thing.

Everyone kept telling me that you were grieving too and that people get through it in their own way. I knew that. But Jesus Fucking Christ, you made me go to school the next day. You made me go to karate class. I got one day off for his funeral, and then it was like life was supposed to go back to normal.

Two weeks later you were dating.

And here we are ten years later. Since that day I've had this boiling inside me, a hatred that I hoped would go away. I kept waiting for you to at least pretend that what I was missing was big enough to matter, and I kept telling myself that I had to give you time. But I'm done.

It's been ten years and I'm an adult, I'm on my own, and I know that I don't really owe you anything. I'm moving. You don't need to know when or where. You don't get to know.

I hope you have a nice life. Better than the one you gave me.

I'm going to have a terrific life. The one my dad would have wanted me to have.

So long,
and thanks for nothing.