In middle school I realized I was about to take my life over someone who constantly went weeks without calling and verbally abused me. I called my father, stomach raging and told him everything I had locked in a cage for thirteen years. He told me everything was my fault. So I told him I didn’t want to see him again and spent the next three hours crying. Why? Because I hated knowing he didn’t care. He just said okay and hung up.

Why didn’t he fight for me?

We went four months without talking. He called, we argued and continued without talking for another four months. I had enough, I missed him. I missed the five minutes I got of the sweet side of my father. I missed hugging him telling him I loved him.

I did love him.

I was deep in depression during those eight months. I lost sleep, was put on medication and cried myself to sleep daily.

The idea of suicide came back.

Only my father could destroy me to this point. I didn’t pay attention in school, constantly skipped meals, and stayed in my room and cried for hours. When my father started doing better, I thought it was only a matter of time before the spark would die. I still didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin. He promised the same things I heard a million times prior. He promised he would do better, that he was sorry he did everything he did to me. Of course, the apology was enough to pull me in yet again to the tornado he called a relationship.

As things got better, I went over to his house more often, and spent more time with him. Where was the father I always knew? This man was comforting, inviting. He made me breakfast, watched T.V. with me, and spent as much time with me as he could. He thanked me for not being too much trouble in school, called me more than once a week, and took me everywhere with him.

I loved being around him.

Now that I’m in high school he finally started being a real dad to me. Maybe all my crying and screaming finally payed off. Maybe he actually listened to me. Now I go to my dads house almost every weekend, catching him up on everything that happened throughout the week.  My grades are rising, and I feel normal. I still don’t know if this will last very long, but its lasted longer than before. I can now speak out about my dad in positive ways, sharing stories about the fun we have together. He’s not perfect, but I wouldn’t have him any other way.