Confessions / Two

Monday, June 3

There's a man, and he is lost. For eleven years he grounds himself. He places himself in hopes of nothing. He buries himself deeper and deeper thinking he's crawling back out of the hole he fell in. All along he is complacent. He is idling. There's no moving forward. He is sorrowful. He is my father.

Eleven years to the day and he cuts himself from the chord. It's all in his head, and he thinks he's crawling again. He still goes backwards. Anguish, then despair, and now freedom. Freedom from responsibility, from commitment, from guilt. He is not my father.

I had a dad, you could say. I had a father who read me bedtime stories, ate ice cream with me, and made me ride the ferris wheel that was far beyond my eyes could see. I had a dad who made me giggle, who laughed at me when I cried big tears after watching King Kong, who gave me love. I had a father. At eleven years old, my bags weighing down on my pale arms, my eyes swelling from tears that I don't want my mom to see, my bedroom emptied out with nothing left but old memories, we shut the door. And that door may have shut his door to fatherhood too. Age twelve: I am entering middle school. I am experiencing, and learning originality, and changing, and growing. Father, where are you? Age fourteen: I am liking boys, desiring to be 'cool', struggling with beauty and looks and sadness. Father, where are you? Age fifteen: high school comes along. I am bullied, I am hurt, I still don't understand everything. I question. Father, where are you? Age sixteen: I see girls with fathers who don't miss a single thing, who fill up their hearts, who treat them as their beloved, sweet, girls. Father, where are you? Age seventeen and I have my first boyfriend, I experience my first job, I am about to go to college, I am grown. Father, where are you?

I don't know what happened. Maybe I was naive at age eight, when nothing more brightened up my day than my father. But somewhere along the lines, he left. He left with his sadness packed up in his suitcase. He left with his 'success' on the fore front of his mind. He left with whatever hopes I had of having a father in the most difficult, life-changing years I've had in my life. Physically he is somewhere. Physically I can call him. Physically he can give me a little bit of money now and then. But mentally, my father left a long time ago and died with the man he used to be.

I want to say I feel cheated. I feel as though something so close to my heart was taken away. Every one of us has a deep longing to be with our fathers, our earthly fathers. Every one of us wants to feel the affection of a father who deeply loves us. But I just feel so empty and void of that. He was no where when I needed him, and he still isn't. He left fatherhood on the same porch-step that my mom and I walked out of that day eight years ago. He left his daughter. He left me.

I want to say I am angry. I want to say I should scream, and cry, and tell him the emptiness I've experienced. I want to tell him the jealousy I feel when I see young women talking with their fathers, and those fathers have that look in their eyes that I long for. Those fathers have the protection over those daughters that I cry out for. Those fathers have committed to their daughters, while other men have simply walked out without a single thought of what they left.

I want to say I am heartbroken. I want to say how broken I feel when I see priorities of women, and parties, and money are put far above the love of a daughter. I want to kick, and scream, and cry out for my father. But when that lump in my throat gets too big to swallow, I remember that he isn't there. And it would all be useless. My cries would vanish into thin air. A father can't here his daughters cries, if he isn't a father at all.

I want to remind myself that I tried. I've explained with niceness, with delicate words and tender thoughts. But why should I explain with tenderness, when all he's handed me is the rough void of a father who was once there? I can say I've told him. I told him my struggle, but all that was given in return was a rough shoulder of something else to feel sorry for.

I want to say I don't deserve it, but I remember that every broken heart has a purpose. Every pain we encounter has its reason. Although the pain in my flesh aches and calls out for my earthly father, I remember that my spirit has been fulfilled by my heavenly Father. When all tides are broken loose, and my legs crumble within my brokenness, I remember that my Father rescued me from a life of anger, and guilt, and hurt. My God redeemed me from a man who forsake me. My God picked up my knees before they buckled within the weight of my own sadness. My Creator filled every empty hole left behind by the man who takes the title as my dad. My Lord fulfilled my desires and treats me as though I am His only beloved daughter. My Father walks with me, He talks with me, He teaches me, loves me, cares for me, and fills every void that was once before left scarred. No man could father me the way you do, Lord.

My flesh may be empty, but Father, You give me life. My heart may be broken, but Father, you fulfill my Spirit. I may be scarred, but Father oh Father, You heal me. 


  1. I LOVE your blog! So happy I stumbled onto your piece of the web!

  2. I guess it is experiences like these that make us who we are....I believe everything happens for a reason. And you are right there is no better father than God Himself.

    I just came across your blog from Live and Move and I like you already!


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