An Open Letter to the First Man who Broke my Heart

You have been in my life for years. Seems as though you were always there. Sometimes I wonder what you’re doing now.

Sometimes I blame myself.

Most of the time. I do.

When you’re young, you’re naive. You don’t completely know right from wrong, everyone is a good person.

You were my super hero.

I looked forward to your phone calls every night, looked forward to seeing you, looked forward to every email, every text, every road trip, every word that came out of your mouth was my own personal gospel.

You were my world.

But then you took it all away. My innocence, my world, my beautiful, beautiful childhood light.

You were my world.

But you took it away. How can a world take a world away?

How can you say all those things you said? How could you break my heart?

Everyone deserves to be loved, but genuinely, that wasn’t love.

I was property.

I was your trophy, your one good light among so many that burned out. You spoiled me, forced me to love you. Forced me to want to see you, like Pavlov and his dogs you conditioned me to come, to love you at the ring of a bell that was fear of confrontation.

Like an owner.

Who views the animal as not a part of the family unit, but a possession.

But when a dog is disobedient, they get beaten.

Battered.

And that’s what happened to me.

You beat me, robbed me, kicked me while I was down.

Not physically, no, you never left a trace.

You were manipulative. You beat me senseless until my brain wept tears of blood which then leaked through my wrists and drowned my common sense.

You beat me with a cat of nine words, bits of hopes and dreams embedded to sting even more upon the grazing of my fragile flesh.

I had high hopes.

I was naive.

I was your daughter.

“You are your mother’s daughter” But no, I was yours.

“At least you won’t be lying…” Well how’s this for the bitter truth?

That’s right.

My dearest audience, the first man to break my heart was not a silly boy who left me to fend for myself in this world, but my own daddy dearest.

A father should care about his daughter.

A father should care about her future, not try to win her over in a senseless selfish grudge battle that should’ve ended years ago,

But no.

You carry on and on like a senseless child needing attention,

Screaming and crying “I don’t want to!”

Until eventually, it circles back.

That was me, every time I had to see you.

My belly ached, the tears gripped my throat and made it hard for me to breathe.

I begged to not have to see you. I went to a woman named Barb.

She was supposed to help me, not confront me.

I was never wanting to confront you.

I wasn’t ready.

Not for another five years.

Then finally everything snapped. It had been quite awhile since I’d seen you, I made excuses.

I was sick, I was busy.

You had a talent for bringing out the worst in everyone.

You made me cry, and mom too.

We were both just pawns in your game that you manipulated and cheated, you twisted it.

You ruled the board with fear and fear alone.

You’d never hit me, but your presence made me feel so.

This game was called my head.

You’re a sick man, quite literally.

A narcissist.

I guess I have you to thank for giving me the passion to pursue a career of psychology.

Because I want to know how someone like you ticks.

I had a good few months, maybe a year.

I could do whatever I wanted.

Finally go to friends birthday parties, finally have better and healthier friendships.

And then one night I got a single text message that’s siren still rings in my dreams late at night.

I think about that day every one that I’m alive, Daddy.

Every fucking day of my life.

I’m told it's for the best, but I still remember trying to play it off like I didn’t care, maybe it was shock.

But within a couple hours I was on my bed, crying.

Hysterical.

The album I listened to still pains me to hear.

Just like that road to go see you still make me sick, wanting to throw up all the black that had settled in my stomach that tasted of bitter acid.

How I hate thinking about ever going to the state you reside in.

It’s classical conditioning.

Like a famous character from a novel I love,

I’m trapped inside the attic that is my mind, made sick by the music that is your memory.

I remember everything.

Yes, even the good.

Sometimes that hurts more.

The bad is what clings to my eyelids when I sleep at night.

I want to forget you.

Sometimes I wish you were dead because I hate you,

Then I want you better because I love you.

You disowned me two and a half years ago.

It still feels like one hour.

I want you out of my head.

But every day…

I

See

You

In

The

Mirror.