Dear Dad...

I kinda hope you're reading this. After all, we both know that you can spy on people like no other.

Here's the deal. I don't owe you shit. You may have "given me life," you may have put clothes on my back and food in my mouth and taken care of me(grudgingly, I might add) for 18 years. So congratufuckinglations, you did the bare minimum that a parent should do. You may have spawned me, but any person with a working reproductive system can make a baby. Many do that absolutely should not, and you were one of them. But you cannot claim that you "gave me life." You imposed biological life upon me to fulfill the egotistical need to copy yourself, but you sucked the spiritual and emotional life right out of me.

Any time I start thinking of doing something I love, something that would make my happy or make my dreams come true, your voice pops into my head and tells me not to do it. When I falter, when I make a mistake, your voice pops into my head and tells me what a fuckup I am. When I struggle, your voice tells me that I'm a failure, that I'm always going to be a failure and that I need to be fixed.

When someone gives something to me, out of the goodness of their heart, with no expectation of return, your voice tells me that I owe them, that I am forever in debt to that person. Even if it's dinner. Even if it's something that I desperately need. I'm not allowed to ask, because to ask for help is to enter into a binding contract that I can never escape.

Also, how dare you sick your slimy, manipulative, sycophantic wife on me? The only reason I haven't steamrolled her yet is because it would be like a grown man picking a fight with an autistic toddler. I am not her child. I never have been, I never will be, and if she wants children so badly, she can fucking adopt. I hope she doesn't, though, because a child raised by the two of you would likely give up on life before puberty.

Also, wife, don't fucking tell me how to live my life. Don't tell me what to do or how to think, don't tell me what's right and what's wrong. You lived on apron strings for 40 years out of 50. You don't know shit. I am the child of another woman. How dare you even attempt to turn my morals around? For that matter, how dare you tell me that I "need help?" I have a feeling that I would be a lot better off if you hadn't gotten in the middle of my relationship with my father. But we all know that you're the princess in any situation and if you want someone's attention, then their children are going to have to move aside.

And this one is for the both of you. I am a driven, opinionated, strong-willed person, and I am my own person. Through emotional abuse and manipulation, you were able to wholly and completely cow me for 18 years, but that tactic is what made me decide to walk away. And thank god I did. Sad thing is you're both too proud or blind to realize that it was your hand that turned me away.

Dad, I don't know what you were thinking when you decided to have children, but you made the wrong choice. I have heard of worse fathers, but I've never met one. I have to acknowledge that you were decent when we were younger. You drank too much and you spent all of our money, but at least you treated us like you loved us. But maybe all that alcohol addled your brain, or maybe I grew up, but if you died tomorrow, I don't know how much I would grieve. I've already grieved so much. I might even be relieved that I would never be obligated to speak to you again.

After all, I wouldn't have to send you a wedding invitation or baby pictures. I wouldn't have to wrestle with myself about whether I want to allow you to walk me down the aisle or hold my children. I wouldn't have to dread the idea of you somehow getting ahold of my phone number or address and tracking me down to insist that I do you or your newfound clan one service or another. I wouldn't have to worry about what you're saying to the rest of the family. Not that it matters, most of them are as crazy as you.

I don't think I'm going to welcome you back into my life. You don't deserve the privilege. It is a privilege, by the way. Not a right. That goes the same for my children, my marriage, and everything else.