The final birthday gift

In 2020, my mother and I had an epic fight over the phone. It was about my little sister's privacy in her relationship. It was one of the first times we, as her children, asserted our boundaries where there had been none before. And she did not like it. Shortly after, my father began sending me strange messages about the clients he counseled and how their children were saying nasty things about them behind their backs. He told me how happy he was that his children didn't talk about him behind his back. It was weird. His work wasn't something we usually discussed, and something about it felt... off.

So I called him out on it.

He told me how he was becoming a better person every day and that I should be in therapy. A week later, he accused me of spreading serious lies about forging signatures and taking out student loans in my sister's name. He called me wrong and evil, demanding to know where these lies were coming from. Then, on my 40th birthday, he disowned me.

Done and done and wrapped up nicely.

"Father is daughter's first love."

I was my father's first daughter. My middle name is after him. I have his nose and smile, charisma, and charm. His temper, depression, and self-loathing. One night during my chubby golden years, I padded over to him while he was dozing off. I smiled sweetly at the image of my father tucked in and sleepy, then gave him a kiss. I whispered goodnight. The look on his face twisted, and he balled up his fists and curled his lip. "Goodnight!" he yelled, like a poked bear. I ran away on tiny legs, crying in fear of the man who was supposed to protect me.

A psychic once told me that as a child, I knew I couldn't count on the people who raised me to protect me. It made me sad, and I recalled a memory at age three. I wanted to go to the grocery store with my father, but I had to go to the bathroom. He told me I could go when we got there. As we walked through the doors, we passed the toilets, and I peed right there on the floor. I was embarrassed and ashamed, but even at that age, I knew better than to tell him what happened. He just looked at the puddle, not noticing the urine on my legs or clothing, and said, "It looks like someone peed there."

My father was an omnipresent absence in my life from the day I was born. His job took him out of state and home for weeks. The only constant was the ever-present threat of punishment my mother held over our tiny heads that we would receive "when your father gets home." Without warning or warmth, he walked through the door and lined my older sister and me up, bare bottoms, and with a crack of a leather belt, he laid justice on a three- and seven-year-old. The crime? Not picking up our toys. This and worse continued until I was ten, save for the time he came home angry and took it out on me with his hands when I was 14.

Even so, I tried, as a child does, to reach for my father's hand and invite him into my world of fantasy and ponies. I had a natural talent for storytelling and art. Feeling proud, I would show him my work. Everyone else told me it was great, that I was gifted, and it was amazing that I could create such detailed works at my age. He would look at them and tell me I needed to get better. Not to say that he never liked what I created, but it had to come with some kind of accolade or prize. In high school, I drew the cover of The Smashing Pumpkins' "Mellon Collie and The Infinite Sadness" album for a school project. My teacher made a dramatic scene about how amazing I did by giving me an extraordinary grade of 115. I made the highest grade in the class, which made my father very proud. She asked if she could keep it, and I said yes, which made my father angry. He would retell that story any time he could and always ended with, "I wish you hadn't given it away."

Believing he loved my talent, I recreated the picture years later and gave it to him as a Christmas gift. I watched and held my breath as he opened it, hoping he would be happy to finally have the art that got away. Needless to say, his response was lackluster, throwing in that it wasn't the original. I was heartbroken and confused. It wasn't until later I realized because it wasn't attached to a ribbon or prize, it was just another worthless piece of garbage at the cost of my broken heart.

My childhood was a trial by fire living with a man who was constantly angry and depressed. We never knew who we would get when he walked in the door. He could have been whistling a tune with a beat in his heart or out for blood if there was a single dirty dish in the sink. When the garage door would open, we would scramble to look busy. If we had time to lean, we had time to clean.

When I was seven, he corralled us kids to clean up the house on a weekend when my mother was away. When I protested that I was too tired, he pushed me into the wall and held his finger in my face. He yelled through gnashed teeth, telling me how he was sick and tired of me not doing shit. It was a common occurrence that I knew how worthless I was to him.

I began to develop chronic sleeping issues and would be exhausted at school. My grades began to slip, and I was punished for it. Asking for help was a dangerous task on its own, admitting I needed help would have me face ridicule about why I wasn't smart enough. "It's not that hard, why don't you understand? Stop crying or I'm going to give you something to cry about! Do you want to flunk? Is that what you want? To be a failure?"

I could lie down and stare at the ceiling for hours even when I had a million things I wanted to do, but the anxiety of failure was too overwhelming for me to make a move. I often thought, "What was the point of even trying when I know it's not going to be good enough?" I didn't have an original idea in my head anymore and needed constant guidance to ensure that every step I took was the right one. If I didn't receive praise or assurance, I couldn't trust myself. If I failed, how could I ever be lovable? I was broken.

At eight, I attempted to drown myself in the bathtub.

I began to distance myself from my father at a young age, somehow knowing I wasn't safe with him. Little did I know how much danger I was in when my mother put me in a closet and told me not to come out unless it was her or the police. I don't remember much of that night but red and blue lights flashing in my front yard. I didn't see my father again for six weeks. When he showed up one morning in my mother's bed with a clean-shaven face, I thought he was a stranger. It wasn't until recently when my younger sister, who has been blessed and cursed with remembering our childhood, told me that my father called my mom that evening, revealing to her that he was coming home to kill us.

We were left alone with that man afterward, like nothing had happened.

In an age where people my age are going no contact with their parents because we are finally waking up to words like "boundaries" and "self-care," my tale is one of abandonment.

I think of the child I used to be and how quickly her innocence was lost. I was always too old for something and should know better. Love was an affection to be earned, and the list of tasks was never-ending. The world didn't revolve around me and I should be thinking of others, but if I only paid attention to what I was doing, I could do it right. It shouldn't be this hard to learn something, and now that you know, was it that difficult? Bathing, feeding, and clothing were the things I should be grateful for and the only things I could expect. I was hungry at school because I didn't have enough to eat, but I wasn't worth 50 cents from my father's stash. I should monetize my talent, but to get paid, I needed to be better. And by the way, I wasn't special enough to make it, and artists don't make much money anyway.

So I gave up art. I walked on eggshells. I didn't ask for anything because I knew I wasn't worth it. I stopped talking about myself and listened to him talk at me. I starved my body and couldn't physically eat in front of friends until I was in my mid-20s. I fell in love with a man who hated me. I told everyone how amazing my father was. I stopped making decisions for myself because I didn't know how to take care of me.

Just so you know, my father did steal money from my sister through forgery. I didn't talk about it to anyone but my sister; she only discussed it with me and our parents. I left the man who hated me. I'm slowly getting back into art. My life is a little strange when I compare it to people who spend holidays with family and mine is at home with my pets. But, it's the most peaceful I've ever felt. Knowing I never have to see the man who betrayed my faith in familial love is a gift, the final birthday present.