When I was a little kid, about six or seven years old, I didn't really know that my biological father was nonexistent in my life. I grew up with "father figures" around, but not my "real" father - not the DeoxyriboNucleic Acid version. As far as I can remember, I was content with what I had, not truly pondering where my biological father was. I keep saying biological father because after recent previous experiences, I don't like to throw around the word "father", nor do I want to use it lightly. It holds meaning, and he wasn't really a dad to me; only scientifically, organically, and biologically. Sure, we shared DNA, but I have learned that being a father is so much more than that. I wish it all wasn't true, and yet I'm relieved. It's unfortunate that I have had to undergo events that made me see the light - but I'm thankful all at the same time.

I know that I wrote you that letter when I was thirteen and a half years old. I was curious about who you were, and to this day, I can recall almost so vividly looking in the phone book, scrawling for your name and your address. My heart pounded as I laid on my floor, trying to find the right things to say. I honestly don't remember what I wrote to you, but sometimes I wonder why it was me that had to come forward and find you. I know you probably wanted to give me space, but after events, I wonder if that was really the case. I know it's not exactly fair for me to jump to such conclusions, and it's sad - but you have only given me reasons to do so today. Sometimes I wish you tried harder to want to be there for me, to be my father - from the day I was born.

Everything is quite blurry, and the memories are just as tattered as the feelings I radiated from you as I got older. I was just a little girl, and I was already so confused when you didn't always stick around. You and mom would be arguing in the driveway about how you would dip in and out of my life. It's weird how I can replay that moment in my head so vividly, unlike the other ones. So that's what I really remember about you, among the times where you actually were there. You'd come to my third and forth birthday parties, yes, but when I was about seven years old, my mom married her first husband and he wanted to adopt me. You signed me over to him so easily, and from there, I wouldn't have anything to do with you ever again. Or more, you wouldn't have anything to do with me ever again. I used to wanted you to be my dad most times when I was younger - in middle school, and in high school. I would cry, wishing that you and my mom had stayed together as teenagers after I was born and I so desperately craved a "normal family". I was jealous of those girls who were grateful enough to grow up with their father's around - the one man who would never disappoint her. Well, in the end, you have disappointed me. But that is irrelevant now, isn't it?

You came into my life for a short amount of time. From ages fourteen to twenty, you tried to make up for all the times you weren't there for me when I was a little kid. And for a moment there, I wanted to believe that it all mattered and you were my dad again. It all seemed quite authentic, heartfelt, honest . . . just picture perfect real. Though you were in my life at certain times throughout my teenage years, kept in contact with me, invited me to a few family get-togethers, bought me gifts for my birthday and on Christmas, invited me to dinner and always reminded me that you were there for me if I needed to talk; I always felt like that was just a silly obligation for you know that I had made it known that I wanted you to realize I existed again. But the thing is, you never truly knew anything about me. That's the part that hurts the most. You couldn't handle the real me, the fact that maybe your daughter was broken inside, and had demons to overcome. And that really destroyed from the core.

I used to wish you could listen to me, or at least try to. I feel as though everything I talked to you about went through one ear and right out the other. You should have known that if I was unveiling myself to you, that it was such a privileged. But then there were those times towards the end of our relationship where you would zone out when I was opening myself up to you, or you would say something like "If I raised you, you wouldn't be so sensitive. You would be tougher", or "You can't get sad. Get angry! Get angry!" I would share my passions with you as much as I could, because I wanted you to be proud of me. I thought that maybe if I opened up to you about my depression, my anxiety and all of those evil thoughts in my mind, you would hug me and tell me that everything was going to be okay and that you would kind of understand to an extent. But instead, you scolded me and I felt foolish and on the spot. You made me feel ashamed, and the day that you unnecessarily looked into something of mine that was secret, you hated it. You hated the things inside of me that I was trying to overcome. Instead of being the father that I needed to be there for me when I needed him the most, you turned away, disgusted. I never felt so terrible or alone. You were all these things that I thought you were - but turns out it was only the opposite. It was a disappointment, and I wanted to evaporate from the complete shame that you had cast onto me, that you projected onto me because you couldn't face your own problems the way I had learned to.

The more I learned about you, the more I saw your true personality, the more I realized that we were very different - and that I felt like such an alien to you. I might have shared your genes, but I had never felt so different from anyone, and that made me feel angry, alone and disappointed. I thought that you were so cool, and I was proud to share your laugh, your quirks and your awkward at times personality. Now they all just seemed like minor, stupid traits that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. I was growing up, and I was transitioning into my own person. I felt like the more I expressed of myself to you, the more you didn't like me.

You obviously didn't know anything about me . . . at all.

You would continuously say that you only wanted the best for me, but instead you would treat me like a child and belittle my hopes and my dreams. You thought that I would end up like you: a loser.

I'm going to continue to be my own person, and I'm not going to be anyone else but that. Even though you couldn't accept all of me, I love who I am. I'm not changing for the world, for my friends and friends to come, for the rest of my family, or for future romantic relationships. Nothing. They will all love me for who I am, and despite my flaws and dark sides of pain and struggles, they accept me. All of me. And you just couldn't do that. Besides, I have a life to live, and I don't need anyone who makes me feel ashamed of who I am.

Sincerely,
The only good thing you ever did