Seventeen

Seventeen.

You know, it’s funny, the kinds of questions they ask at job interviews. I’ve been doing a lot of those recently. I’m seventeen and I still don’t have a job. All my friends have one that they got a while back, before the pandemic. Meanwhile, I’ve been going to interview after interview. Either no one wants to hire right now because they’re afraid of another wave of COVID, or I’m more socially awkward than I thought. The questions they ask at those interviews are always super weird though. I hear them a lot. My favorite is, “if you could say something to yourself from ten years ago, what would it be?” That’s hard, you know, at least it is for me. Everything has changed the last few years, for better and for worse. Everything is harder. I don’t want to say that to a child. I want to go back.

Sixteen.

One year ago I was suffocating. I felt trapped, and not just because of the pandemic. I was trapped inside my house. I was trapped inside of my mind. I was trapped, drowning inside a pool of aching, swirling, anxiety filled thoughts. I was trapped inside of a father-daughter relationship I didn’t want anymore and I couldn't get out. 

Fifteen.

Two years ago was the last time I saw my father. I didn’t want to go anymore. I knew that he was an awful person and I didn’t want to see him anymore. I begged and pleaded with my mom to just let me stay home. She couldn’t; it was written in the court order that I had to see him every summer. I’m going to see him again on Christmas break this year, to try and save something, any tiny piece of the relationship we once had. I’m not sure if I even want to. 

Fourteen. 

There was a summer, three years ago, when I was out on a walk with him. He was telling me all about this trip that he had taken to LA that summer for his 40th birthday. Apparently there were these girls in “really revealing” outfits taking pictures with people. 

“These weren’t the kind of girls that should be wearing those types of clothes.”

I asked him what he meant by that. 

“Well, just imagine if you wore those kinds of clothes. No one would find you sexy.” 

I’ve always been a larger woman. I had just started to lose weight as well. I had lost 40 pounds in just a few months. When he said this, it ruined all the confidence I had gained that year. Sometimes, I still don’t think anyone will ever find me attractive. 

Thirteen. 

This was the year I came out to my dad. It was pride month, and we were driving down the street when I saw a store. The window was painted with the colors of the pansexual flag. I smiled. My dad noticed that I looked happy, and he asked me why. I finally worked up the guts to tell him that I’m pansexual. He asked what it meant. Valid question, so I told him, it means that I can be attracted to anyone, no matter their gender identity. 

“Well it sounds to me like you just can’t choose.”

...choose? Why do I have to choose? 

Ten. 

I hope no one minds that I skipped a few years. They all seem like a blur to me now. I can’t remember anything much. I was still my father’s puppet. This was the year, though, that my mother told me what had happened between them. She told me how he beat her. She told me how he was arrested for assault outside of her workplace. She told me how he tried to kidnap me twice.

I was an idiot. I didn’t believe her. Do you know how much hell I could have escaped if I had just believed her?

After that, I started to see more and more of his ugly side. I thought there was nothing I could do to escape. I started to imagine these awful scenarios where I could finally get away from him. I’d imagine he’d come to my school and try to kidnap me. I’d imagine the police would finally get him so that I could finally be rid of him. I imagined he’d assault me in public like he did to my mother. She’d keep me away after that. She would keep me safe. I never imagined that I could do something myself. 

Seven. 

This would be the year. If I was to tell myself ten years ago anything, I’d have to tell my seven year old self. I guess all I would say is,

“Take your chance. Do it now.”

I had to do it. Even if I was scared, I should have done something earlier. I should have said something, anything, leapt at any chance I had. If I went back and said something to my seven year old self… if I told her what I had to live with, then maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have to go through the same pain.

One. 

One email. That’s all it took. I told him about all the times he hurt me. I told him that I didn’t want to have phone calls with him anymore. I told him that I didn’t want to see him again. I told him how everything he’d done made me feel like an insignificant, worthless burden. There were later emails… but that one, that one made him think. I suppose he had this sudden realization. 

“Maybe, just maybe if I continue to treat her like this, she’ll stop coming back.”

...well gee, dad, you think? I still don’t know if I want to go back, even after he’s tried to make amends. Maybe it’s not worth it.

Zero.

The number of times I’ll put up with one more insult.

The number of times I’ll cry about him from this point on.

The amount of times I’ll say I forgive him.

Precisely the number of fucks I give, because obviously he’s never given a damn one about me.

Sorry dad. You don’t get any more chances. I’ve used up my life on you.