The night that I decide to let myself feel the heaviness of the falling out between my best friend and I, everything else goes down with it. Comme toujours, so this shouldn't have been a surprise.
Dear Dad,
Maybe I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time tonight. And maybe you just needed to cool off some steam from all the stress that you have now clearly yelled to me. But I need to let this out. I needed to have a word in too. It hurts.
I'm not your disrespectful 18-year old daughter. I'm not throwing my life away carelessly, or inconsiderately disregarding my family. I am clueless. You and mom, you two keep everything to each other. All our problems, all our plans, anything that the entire family should know about, you keep it between the two of you. And when worse comes to worst, I refuse to be the punching bag. We refuse to be the punching bag. Just like we refuse to be the statues of this house.
You never tell us anything. ANYTHING. And you expect us to have the respectful, proper, thoughtful reaction that good children have. But what reaction can you expect when you shut all of us out when it comes to the worst?
Remember all the times when we were younger, and every time we were going to move, we found out a few days before? A day before? You started packing things up and expected us to follow along every time our lives were to change. I remember that. In the Philippines. We just started going to big buildings all of a sudden, waiting in endless lines, with paperwork in your hands. And before we knew it, you said we were leaving for the U.S. Then I remember being here and I remember finally getting comfortable in one of our previous homes here. And once again, you packed up, and expected us to follow. Then it happened again, and one more time. But not once, not once did you ever sit us down to tell us that our lives were going to have to change.
Remember when mom was sick? Remember how neither of you informed us about it? How you expected us to know how to be with out us knowing what you even wanted us to be. Remember how I found out? Well, I don't think you do. You threw it out there like it didn't matter whether we knew or not. You shrugged it towards our way, didn't acknowledge our reactions towards it. I cried my nights, I cried to my best friend. And she helped me up when I couldn't stand the devastating news. Like always, you just kept us out. You couldn't even sit us down to tell us that our mother's life was at risk?
Remember last year when mom lost the baby? Remember how you didn't even TELL us that she was pregnant. How you made Blithe guess and guess and made him run around like a monkey, hungry for news when you finally dropped clues for us. Remember that? Remember how you just left one day, and didn't tell us why? How you came home, and mom was crying and that was it for us to know. You couldn't even sit us down to tell us that we'd lost what could have been our brother?
And every time, every time the heat filled you to the brim, you explode at me, at us. You finally tell us what we're doing wrong. To feel. To care what's going on with our family. And we sit there, and we take it because we never know how to respond. So we get angry, and we resent you, and we keep it to ourselves because we don't know where to put it. And just like that, everyone in the house learned how to avoid one another. And we never tell each other anything and we can never talk about anything. And you'll yell at us and we don't know where you're coming from. And we rebel and you don't know where we're coming from. And nobody knows anything because our parents taught us to keep it in. To keep it all inside.
You just didn't teach us the part when you can't take it anymore. You didn't teach us how to be when everything you've been holding in blows up in your face. And you're left there with a mess. And we won't cry. And we won't talk about it. And we won't accept the fact that it blew up. We just leave it. We move pass it. We pretend like it never happened.
And now we're here again, another season, another problem. You're not telling us a word again, and we're never home again. And it's exactly the same thing. And we're all angry but we're all so quiet. No one is saying anything.
What's the next step dad? What do we do now?
I'm not your disrespectful 18-year old daughter. I'm not throwing my life away carelessly, or inconsiderately disregarding my family. I am clueless. You and mom, you two keep everything to each other. All our problems, all our plans, anything that the entire family should know about, you keep it between the two of you. And when worse comes to worst, I refuse to be the punching bag. We refuse to be the punching bag. Just like we refuse to be the statues of this house.
You never tell us anything. ANYTHING. And you expect us to have the respectful, proper, thoughtful reaction that good children have. But what reaction can you expect when you shut all of us out when it comes to the worst?
Remember all the times when we were younger, and every time we were going to move, we found out a few days before? A day before? You started packing things up and expected us to follow along every time our lives were to change. I remember that. In the Philippines. We just started going to big buildings all of a sudden, waiting in endless lines, with paperwork in your hands. And before we knew it, you said we were leaving for the U.S. Then I remember being here and I remember finally getting comfortable in one of our previous homes here. And once again, you packed up, and expected us to follow. Then it happened again, and one more time. But not once, not once did you ever sit us down to tell us that our lives were going to have to change.
Remember when mom was sick? Remember how neither of you informed us about it? How you expected us to know how to be with out us knowing what you even wanted us to be. Remember how I found out? Well, I don't think you do. You threw it out there like it didn't matter whether we knew or not. You shrugged it towards our way, didn't acknowledge our reactions towards it. I cried my nights, I cried to my best friend. And she helped me up when I couldn't stand the devastating news. Like always, you just kept us out. You couldn't even sit us down to tell us that our mother's life was at risk?
Remember last year when mom lost the baby? Remember how you didn't even TELL us that she was pregnant. How you made Blithe guess and guess and made him run around like a monkey, hungry for news when you finally dropped clues for us. Remember that? Remember how you just left one day, and didn't tell us why? How you came home, and mom was crying and that was it for us to know. You couldn't even sit us down to tell us that we'd lost what could have been our brother?
And every time, every time the heat filled you to the brim, you explode at me, at us. You finally tell us what we're doing wrong. To feel. To care what's going on with our family. And we sit there, and we take it because we never know how to respond. So we get angry, and we resent you, and we keep it to ourselves because we don't know where to put it. And just like that, everyone in the house learned how to avoid one another. And we never tell each other anything and we can never talk about anything. And you'll yell at us and we don't know where you're coming from. And we rebel and you don't know where we're coming from. And nobody knows anything because our parents taught us to keep it in. To keep it all inside.
You just didn't teach us the part when you can't take it anymore. You didn't teach us how to be when everything you've been holding in blows up in your face. And you're left there with a mess. And we won't cry. And we won't talk about it. And we won't accept the fact that it blew up. We just leave it. We move pass it. We pretend like it never happened.
And now we're here again, another season, another problem. You're not telling us a word again, and we're never home again. And it's exactly the same thing. And we're all angry but we're all so quiet. No one is saying anything.
What's the next step dad? What do we do now?
Signed,
Your 18 year-old daughter
Your 18 year-old daughter
