This is for all the little girls who learned silence and co-dependence. I pray you let yourselves heal. It will take years. And it will hurt. But it’s worth it when you realize how strong you really are. You’re amazing.
I don’t understand. He told me not to call again. But I thought he was my dad.
He’d raised me for nine years. He’d carried me out of movie theaters when my tears wouldn’t cease. He’d carried me to clinics and ER’s. He’d carried me through my advanced math classes.
He’d told me the whole room lit up when I smiled.
He’d also hurt me. He’d shown a temper like none I’ve ever seen. He’d crossed boundaries I couldn’t explain to most people. He’d taught this vivacious little girl to be silent. He’d shown me everything I wasn’t good at.
He’d said I was his little girl.
There’s a sad sort of beauty in the fact that I was always such a daddy’s girl. Every art project was a sort of homage to one of my father figures. These were usually of him, not my birth father or any other male role model in my life. They were of him. They were for him. I wanted him proud of me. I wanted him to know how much I loved and needed him.
But he told me not to call. He wouldn’t be my dad anymore. So I cried, just once. Then I made a plan to move on. And it worked. I stopped being silent.
But I still remember. And, in the past few years, I’ve let myself cry some more. I was always a daddy’s girl. I loved him. I still love him, that part of him that carried me. But now I know I never needed him. I pray he understands.