Dear Dad

It's been ten years and seven months since you died, and I don't think the pain has lessened any. I'm 20 now, Dad, and I still feel like the lost little girl who found out her Daddy was never coming back. I fell apart when you died, and it seems like I'll never be whole again. I am still so angry with you for letting drugs become more important than your daughter. I'm angry with Mom, too--the drugs and alcohol have destroyed that relationship--but you're the one who's gone. At least Mom stuck around. It kills me to think that drugs are the reason I'm completely alone and lost right now. I feel like I'm drowning, and I don't have anyone to fall back on. Do you know how hard it was for me when Mom was relapsing every weekend? Do you know how scary it was to find her passed out on the bathroom floor and feel responsible for her? Of course you don't--you weren't there. You chose Fentanyl over me. Thanks to you, I didn't get to have a childhood, and now I'm a broken adult.

Your birthday was a few weeks ago, exactly one week before mine. You would have been 50. That day, along with the anniversary of your death, are the two hardest days for me to get through every year. I miss you so much, but at the same time, I find myself gradually forgetting what your voice sounded like and what you looked like. All I have left are pictures, birthday cards, and your Air Force jacket. It's so hard knowing that I'm forgetting my dad. I leave campus on Parents' Weekend every year because it's too painful to see the other girls with their dads and knowing that I'll never have that again. The other day, I had a happy moment when I was proud of myself, and the first thought I had was to pull out my cell phone and call you. It seems so stupid now, but that split second when I felt the urge to call you was so real, and I cried because it hit me for the millionth time that I'll never talk to my dad again.

It seems ridiculous to me that I still cry over you after ten years. Shouldn't this be getting easier? I hope, wherever you are, that you've found the peace you were obviously lacking. It's hard growing up and realizing just how unhappy you were when you were alive, and it's hard coming to the realization that parents aren't perfect. I remember when I used to idolize you. I miss those days. I miss you. I love you.

Dear William

From time to time I wish I had my grandmother’s ring, which, of course, makes me think of you. I never thought that a material thing could mean so much to me. I never thought I would find it hard to forgive a friend. I also never thought that a friend could be the reason I lost something that meant so much to me.

I had friends before you who were into drugs. I was able to keep my distance as to not get hurt. But who could have known you would get hooked just as I became your housemate? On one hand, it was just something stupid that happened. My drug addicted roommate took my stuff. It’s like an After School Special.

On the other hand… You – or your dealer- (I’ll never know) stole every piece of jewelry that I had that was worth anything to me. Every single piece. Do you know what was in there? Let me list it.

My grandmothers ring
My old wedding band
My class ring
An old promise ring
My mother’s watch
Diamond earrings

All these things meant something to me. Sentimental value. I had planned on making a new ring from the wedding band to remind myself to grow from my mistakes. I planned on passing my grandmother’s ring to my daughter.

I know there was more that in my jewelry box that day. The police report has it, I guess. But that’s enough, isn’t it?

It’s been a few years. Do you remember when you said your renter’s insurance would cover it? Do you remember telling me that no matter how long it took you would pay me back? I remember.

All this time, I’ve tried to figure out why I have trouble forgiving you. Maybe it’s because until you try to pay me back, I feel you cannot know what you really did. And if you don’t know what you did – how can you be sorry? How can you change?

Or maybe I am still hurt and angry because you took from me when I was at my lowest. I had nothing. I could barely buy food when I lived with you. And that is when you stole from me. Boggles my mind.

Or maybe forgiving you is like letting you off the hook. It’s like saying that it was no big deal. But it was. It is. Watch me tell my daughter when she is 16 that I have no family heirloom to give her. Be there to see my sadness. Watch her disappointment. Can you do that? No, you’ll be long gone. I’ll be a story you tell about one time when you hurt someone. Oh well, it was the drugs right? And God forgives. God healed you.

Let me tell you something I learned from all this:

Your god is not my God. My God is interested in you learning to fix your damn mistakes. He would not have you walk away from them with a shrug. My God is into teaching people to keep their word. Your god, apparently, is a pushover; a complete pussy who does not care if people’s actions match their words.

I want to forgive you, William, but I can’t. Tell me why I should.