The Story Of How I Became a Fatherless Daughter

My story of being a fatherless daughter begins when I was just 3 years old. It pains me to think about that time, simply because I don’t remember any of it. It happened in April. My father was working the night shift at a local convenience store…just trying to make a living for his family. A young man wanders in, and shoots him. That was the night my sisters and I became fatherless. At the time I was too young to understand how this loss would affect my life. To be honest, I don’t even remember how it affected my life at that time; I only know how it affected me in the years to come. Years later, while going through boxes of my dad’s stuff like we did almost every year, my mom brought out a surveillance tape from that night. She said we would watch it once together, and then she would destroy it. I’m guessing she kept it until we were all old enough to understand what happened. The tape showed my dad sitting behind the counter doing a crossword, or doodling. It showed a teenage boy walk in. My dad gave him a nod, appeared to say “hello,” and stood up behind the register. The young man put a candy bar or something on the counter, and then held a gun to my dad. My dad instantly put his hands up, then opened the register and took all of the money out. He stood back as the young man continued to yell something at him. Then he shot him. I saw my dad grab at his chest, say something along the lines of “oh sh**,” and fall out of the camera’s view. The boy grabbed the money and candy bar and ran out of the store, leaving my father alone to die. I only know of what happened next because of a letter my mom wrote to the court, along with newspaper clippings she shared with my sisters and I that day we watched the video. The boy was 16 years old, with a baby on the way. He had a mother who was distraught about his actions and remorseful for our family. The boy who killed my father was sentenced to life in prison.

That is part one of my fatherless daughter story. Like I said, I don’t remember any of it. I don’t have any original memory from that time.

Part two of my story starts maybe a year after my father’s death. This is when my mom met my future step-dad. This man stepped in to be the father he didn’t have to be to four young girls who had become fatherless too soon. He loved us like his own, but he was not perfect. It wasn’t until I was about 10 years old that I realized he was not right for our family. He often drank too much which led to horrible arguments between him and my mother. He was verbally and emotionally abusive to her for a long time. When I was about twelve my mother uprooted us so that she and my step-dad could be married, this was after they dated on and off for about eight years. I was excited for a new start, but I hated leaving my home. The drinking and fighting started again, and within two years my mom made the decision to leave him and move us all back home. During those two years I went through severe depression, to the point of self-harm and thoughts of suicide. The main thing that kept me from actually committing suicide was memories of my uncle. But that’s part three of my story. Although I only bring up the bad times with my step-dad, I have many fond memories of him. He was the first real father I remember. I never called him dad, but he was the dad I had. I may hate the things he did in the end, especially how brutal he was during him and my mom’s divorce, but I will always remember him and the good times we shared.

Now I will talk about part three of my story of being a fatherless daughter. Part three takes place during the years my mom and step-dad were not together, before they got married and we were uprooted. My mom had moved my sisters and me to her home town to be closer to her family. She bought a house and we made a life. During this time my mom and my aunt decided to open an in-home daycare center. My aunt and uncle lived with us to help run the daycare, and my grandmother came by daily to help out as well. I loved having the daycare. I loved the children. I loved having my aunt and uncle in the home. My uncle was another man in my life that I think of like a dad. He helped take care of my sisters and I and the daycare children. He fixed things around the house, shoveled snow, and took out the trash. We even called him “trash man.” The nightmare began one night when my uncle was outside and he slipped on some ice. He dislocated his shoulder and was bedridden for weeks. I don’t remember much of what happened after he got hurt, but I very much remember the day I came home from school and my mom told me that he was missing. If my memory serves me right, my uncle had gone out late the night before to take a walk. Apparently he had been doing so often around that time. It was April so the weather was starting to clear. I was told that my uncle had gone for his walk and never returned. He was called in as a missing person, we made flyers, and my entire family took shifts searching for him around town. I remember the day, about a week later, more clearly than anything. I skipped home from school, excited to tell my mom that I gave my teacher one of the flyers and she was going to make copies for the other teachers. I felt good that I could help in some way as I was too young to go out and help with the actual searches. As I approached my house I saw cops parked outside, and my mom was standing in the driveway. She took my sister and me downstairs, but I saw my aunt upstairs talking to a police officer and crying. My mom sat us down and told us that they had found my uncle and that he was dead. My mind blurs at this point…I couldn’t understand what had happened. My other sisters got home, they rode the bus from the junior high, and I foggily remember her telling them what she had just told me. My uncle had committed suicide. The night he left he took the gun that he had hidden under his bed, and he had killed himself. He never left a note. We will never know why. Depression is a dark and lonely place, and to this day his suicide affects my life and the decisions I make.

So that is my story of how I became a fatherless daughter. I know the loss of all three of these men affected the choices I made growing up, including my choice to become a social worker. My dream and passion is to help others who have also suffered loss and trauma in their lives. I know I have made a lot of bad decision in my life because I am a fatherless daughter. But being a fatherless daughter has also led me to make good decisions. Being fatherless is what led me to know that I wanted to help people, which led to me completing graduate school and becoming a social worker. I currently work with troubled teenagers and their families, helping them cope with traumas in their life and become closer as a family. I know that deep down, being a fatherless daughter has truly impacted my life.

Sara Beth,

A Fatherless Daughter

I Have My Ring Back

I Got My Ring Back


Today is an important day for me and I would like to share it with you.

Someone recommended me the book “Healing from hidden abuse” by Shannon Thomas and I bought the audible version of it. The author describes stages of recovery from psychological abuse and one of the steps is called “Restoring”. It’s about items that have been destroyed by the abuser and the power to restore them.

When I heard that part of the book my heart began to beat faster and I knew immediately which item I will restore.

My dad was an alcoholic, but not the type that drinks and stays calm or disconnected or gets funny. He was aggressive and violent and was getting worse and worse very fast. I remember a time when he was selling everything of value that we had or he could get his hands on. My grandma got a lock for her room and started to hide everything from him.

I must have been 4 or 5 years old. I had a ring with a beautiful, shiny red stone (=cheap glass). Rings were always my favorite jewelry. I’ve put it on a shelf before going to bed and the next day the ring was gone. I was heartbroken. I knew he took my ring but no one believed me. They said that I’ve probably lost it or that it’s still in the room and I should just look for it. The ring was gone.

I know that my mother and grandma had other more important worries than my ring but it was one of the most valuable things I possessed. Dad stole from me. Once more he took something that was mine and sold it.

Today I restored my ring with the red stone. It’s a ring from the 70ies with a red Agate stone. It’s old and some pieces are missing. It’s not perfect and that’s why I like it. I have my ring again. It meant a lot to me and now as a grown up woman, I gave it back to myself and my little girl.

I have my ring back.



The Other Man

The other man

My stepdad had a heart attack and I visited him in the hospital yesterday. I have been No Contact with him and my mother for 2 years. Understandably the hospital encounter brought up memories. Mostly about power struggles and ugly sides of humanity. A connection that was given to us, but never blossomed.

My stepdad came into my life when I was 9 years old. After two years my mom remarried and we moved from Poland to Germany. New husband, new country, new language to learn, new school. The fights started almost immediately after we arrived and after 6 months my mom told me that it has been a mistake and we will go back home. We were in the car together and her promise was the sweetest thing I heard in the last six months. She changed her mind and never mentioned it again. They never stopped fighting. Even now after 20 years their main activity is fighting with each other.

My stepdad doesn’t have his own children. Good for me. I don’t even want to think how he would have treated me if he had kids. He didn’t like the fact that he had to spend money on me. For school, for food and for clothing. I began to earn my own money when I turned 16 and have been supporting myself ever since. In Germany the state gives you a certain amount of money for your kids as long as they go to school (max. till they turn 26). He always kept that money for himself.

He was and is a coward. Coward doesn’t sound bad, but if you know one, you know how ugly things can get. He is the kind of person who attacks people who are weaker like the homeless and is very rude to waiters. He enjoyed being the stronger one and putting me down. Living with him and pretending that everything is fine was hell. I only had good moments with my mother when he worked late shifts and we were alone at home. The dynamic changed after he hit me and I came home with a document from the doctor that described the abuse. I told him that if he ever puts his hands on me again, he will go to jail. He feared me and bought me a car. I won, but I never wanted to be part of it.

I moved out as soon and as far as I could. Things got better, because we didn’t see each other much. When I was 25 my life stopped for a few months. A massage therapist turned out to be a stalker. He was dangerous and wanted me to commit suicide. In all those months my stepdad remained silent. He didn’t want to have anything to do with it. He didn’t protect me at all.

Things have changed drastically when he has lost his job. His German is bad and he needed my help with the papers. “How is my sweet girl today?” “You are all that I have” “Only you matter”. I didn’t work on me. It only made me sad. Sad that I never had a dad who really meant those words. I was never my dad’s princess or dad’s girl.

The hatred in their marriage grew larger and larger and one day I said STOP. When I saw him in that bed yesterday, I felt sorry for him. He was weak and scared.
I did not feel safe around him. He will say and do everything and then use it against you, twist it, lie, put you down.

I feel sorry for myself. For all the years he verbally attacked me at the table and for the PTSD I still have from it. For all the times I had to go out and walk around alone, because they were fighting. For my struggles in a new country without knowing the language and not having parents who knew how it actually is to be part of the German society. I feel sorry for the years I couldn’t build my identity, but pull up a false self that made me safe. I feel sorry for not having had any deep conversations with him, for never doing fun stuff together and feeling bonded and loved.
He has no idea who I am and I guess I don’t even want him to know.

Tracey’s Story

My story is one that started as a young girl. I did not lose my dad to illness, but choice — I still remember the day I knelt in my parents room, crying and praying to God for a new family. I was around 6 years old at the time. I am now 29 and my parents are still unhappily married.
My dad was always home, but was never involved with me or my younger sister. Read more

30. Single. Fatherless.


That’s the current stigma of my life. I’d love to tell you that these truths do not define me but they absolutely do. And at least one of them will stick with me forever.

I’ve been fatherless since I was 10 years old. Read more

Here is the Impact of Your Book…

Thank you so much for the Book “The Fatherless Daughter Project.” I am a Stand-In Father for Karina, age 21, whose mother used crystal meth amphetamines and alcohol during her pregnancy. Karina’s biological father has been completely non-existent in her life. Read more

A “Typical” Family

There is no such thing as a “typical” family, but as far as outward appearance goes, my family has always looked like the “typical” family. I live in a house, I have pets, I go to a good school, I have a mom, a dad and siblings. Even though everything may seem ordinary, the relationship between my father and I has always been far from the norm. He has always been in my life physically, but has not shown up for me, emotionally, in years. He does not spend time with me or my siblings outside of the household. I rarely see him since he gets up for work after I leave for school and comes home every night after I have already gone to bed, which means that I only see him on the weekends. For most of those weekends, we will exchange a sentence or two, or not talk to each other at all.

Ever since I was younger, my dad has never known the names of my teachers, never bought birthday presents, and to this day, has never come to my school to see a project that I have done or an accomplishment that I have made (other than elementary and middle school promotions). There are teachers and other students that know more about my life and what I have gone through than my dad. While most of the time he is absent emotionally, any other interactions with him typically turn out much worse than silence. From road rage to arguments over pointless topics, he usually only shows his emotions through anger.

I remember on my birthday one year, after going to breakfast with my mom and sister, we went home so that I could open my birthday presents. As we walked in the door, my mom mentioned something to my dad that turned my day completely upside down. While the topic brought up wasn’t a big deal, my dad reacted the way that he always does; through anger. He grabbed the television remote and threw it as hard as he could at the tv. I instantly felt this pit in my stomach as the remote broke into a ton of pieces and a crack spread like a spider’s web, across the corner of the tv screen.

While this wasn’t the first time that he had ever acted like this, it is certainly a time that I will never forget. Since then, I have always felt that pit in my stomach return at the sound of negativity in his voice. I stay silent in his presence, in my own home, in fear of how he may react to anything I say. But silence still isn’t good enough. In his eyes, someone is always doing something wrong. I clearly remember this one night that he came into my room. I thought that he was coming to see if I was still awake to say goodnight after not seeing me for the whole day. I had this warm feeling, because I thought that for once, he was going to ask me about my day like other fathers do. That warm feeling shattered the moment that his eyes turned dark and his face turned red. His voice grew loud and aggressive as he started to yell at me about something of his that was missing. He thought that someone must have misplaced it and that no one was going to sleep until it was found. I went downstairs to help him look for it and remembered that I had accidently bumped into it earlier in the day. I thought that I had picked it up, but a piece of it was missing. I explained to him what had happened and he coldly responded, “Well why didn’t you think to pick it up?” He talked down to me like I was stupid, like I was less than him. Even though it was an accident, I felt like I had disappointed him and it was my fault that he was angry.

Other than his anger, one of the hardest parts of the whole situation has been growing up without a good father-like figure. It hurts to see the relationship between other people and their fathers, as they listened to whatever music they wanted to in the car, could make jokes with their friends, and were completely open with their father because they didn’t have to worry about what would upset him. I wonder what it would have been like to have a dad that I don’t have to walk on eggshells around, who is there to take care of me, makes me feel safe and that I can go to, to ask for advice or even have a normal conversation with.

According to “The Father Code”, “It has been shown that the effects of emotionally unavailable fathers were almost identical to those where the father was physically absent” (The 9 Devastating Effects Of The Absent Father). This is not only an issue in my own household, but it also affects a lot of other families across the country. Other than the emotional burdens of lacking a physically or emotionally present father, there are many other ways that this issue can affect children who have dads similar to my own. “The Father Code” also states that individuals raised in a home with an “absent” father can have a greater chance of becoming depressed and/or anxious, abusing substances, dropping out of school, divorce or relationship issues in the future, and 5 times the average rate of suicide (The 9 Devastating Effects Of The Absent Father). There are many ways that I have been impacted by my father’s behavior. For example, I am a very quiet person around people that I am not comfortable with. I think that part of this may be due to the fact that I have never been able to confide in him and have always had to filter what I said around him in order to make sure that he wouldn’t get upset.

I think that the pressure that Society puts on men may be one of the reasons that so many families struggle with this issue. Scott Cunningham and Matt Dwyer from Montana State University wrote that, “Statements like ‘take it like a man,’ ‘boys don’t cry,’ and ‘No Fear’ communicate the idea that expressing emotion equals emotional weakness. This forces men to hide fear, anxiety, pain, sadness, and self-doubt behind a façade of confidence and competence” (Traditional Views of Masculinity Limit Men). Not saying that this is the case for everyone or even my own father, however the pressure that society puts on men to act tough and to conceal their emotions may contribute to the reason that they react in anger and have a hard time making emotional connections with their families.

This problem is an ongoing cycle that needs to be stopped in order to prevent the emotional and physical effects that it has on families lives. Deryl Goldenberg, a clinical psychologist, said, “I had promised myself that I wouldn’t repeat and recreate the hostile relationship I’d had with my own father, I felt almost compelled, unconsciously, to reenact my own childhood with my son.  Here it was happening to me, not as extreme, but still a strained relationship, and this broke my heart that I was still so psychologically immature. I ended up on quite a roller coaster of a ride as a father.  My son is now a grown man and we are currently sorting out our relationship.  Now I am the father open to dealing with the issues with my own son.  I am willing to acknowledge my shortcomings and listen to his childhood experiences, as painful as they are to hear. We are slowly making our way through our troubled history moving towards something of a relationship” (The Psychology Behind Strained Father Son Relationships). Goldenberg didn’t want to be anything like his father. Still, no matter how hard he tried, he ended up recreating his childhood for his own son. However, he made an effort to fix his relationship with his son, even if his timing was a little late.

Since this is an issue that affects my family and the lives of many families throughout the country, it is society’s job to change this mentality that it sets for men. This is a problem that will never be fixed if boys who grow up with dads like these, repeat these actions when they become a father themselves. If society started telling boys that it is acceptable to express their emotions and that they can be different than their father, more sons could have a greater chance at bringing an end to this cycle and more children could grow up with a father who supports them and is always there for them.

One Night

Something bad was in the air. Dad was on the phone with someone. He was angry. I overheard him saying “I will kill her tonight”. What followed was the worst night of my life and it ended with the police taking dad away.

Mom was sitting on a sofa. She looked so small and unapproachable. The silence was heavy. I was confused. 

After some time dad came to pick up his stuff. He was wearing a jeans shirt. That’s how I remember him. He tried to reach out to me, but I was too afraid. 

He left, but the terror stayed trapped in my body. I felt a little bit safer when we got a second door. It was made of steel and had a lock that was difficult to break. Every night before going to bed I checked if the door was closed. I then started to worry about the balcony. I once saw my dad climbing up the house and opening the balcony with one push. I didn’t know how to protect grandma and mom and kept a little deodorant next to my bed…

I was relieved that he was gone. I was proud of my mom for breaking the cycle. I knew it was right. But I missed dad too and I couldn’t share that with anyone. I felt that I am betraying my mom and grandma who fought so strongly to keep the monster away. 

Dad called me once and wanted to take me to an amusement park. My heart lighted up and was quickly crushed by mom’s rage when she heard that I answered the phone. She was afraid that he will kidnap me to get money. 

So from one day to the other there was no more dad, no more grandparents, no aunt, no cousin. No birthday cards. Nothing.

I was lucky to have many kids to play with. Good kids, friends till today. I loved school and was doing well. I bonded with nature and had two dogs I could talk to. The only thing that didn’t work was my health. It was the only way to have grandma care for me with love. I got sick a lot.

That one night haunts me. I know it changed me. It crushed my innocence. It crushed a feeling of safety in the world. It wired my nervous system to work in arousal most of the time. 

The trauma of the night is one thing, but I see that my brain is doing something else too: It’s holding on. There is so little I remember about dad. That night is burned into my brain. I am afraid that I will have nothing more left of him, if I let go of that memory. 

I was relieved that dad was gone. I am grateful to my mom for protecting me. 

Everything I have become is because of his absence and not his presence.

Daddy’s Girl

I unwillingly became fatherless at 27 years old. My Dad passed away peacefully, holding my hand from heart failure. I am thankfully and humbly the definition of a “Daddy’s girl.”

My Dad showed me how to love, and be loved from a very young age. He was nurturing, patient, expressive and always present in my life. He gave me confidence, endless laughter and so much comfort. We spoke every day, sometimes twice a day. He did anything and everything to encourage me and support me. We had a very unique relationship, one that I am forever fortunate to have known.

After losing my sweet Dad, I woke up each day with the intent to not “lose myself.” Easier said than done. A part of my heart is in heaven, and I was left here to figure out how to move forward. I’ve realized I do this every moment of every day, with tears some days and some days not. I started seeing a grief counselor soon after his death which helped me understand my rollercoaster emotions.

My strength is found in Christ, my husband, my friends and my family. I feel my Dad’s love living in me, it gives me great peace and motivation to love and live life to the fullest. God has never forsaken me, and he will not forsake you…

I Never Had a Dad

I Never Had a Dad

For as far back as I can remember, I never had a dad. I just came from one parent, I was a person who only had a mom. If someone had asked me about my parents when I was six years old, I would have had trouble answering the plural. It was just so strange to think of myself having two parents; no one ever talked about my father or asked about him, I’d never met him, and I didn’t have many dealings with other children and so didn’t notice that I was different from them in that respect. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand that I had a father, I had just never felt his presence in my life. He was as much of a phantom as the characters from bible stories were. I “knew” that they had happened, it was a standard truth. But they were too far removed from me to be considered a potent reality.

Since neither my mother nor my grandmother, the dual caregivers of my half-sister and I, never spoke about him, his existence didn’t make any impression on me as a small child. I only thought to question his absence when I noticed that the characters in movies I watched all had dads in some form or other and I didn’t. I was five years old and didn’t put much stock into what I asked, not particularly interested in who or where my father was. But as a child, I simply delighted in the attention I received from my mother when asking a question…any question. However, she never delivered a satisfactory answer. Our childhoods being as warped and blurred as they are in our memories, the only response of hers that I can really remember now was some grumbling about him not wanting to pay child support.The short mutterings she provided, when she could be bothered to acknowledge me at all, only inspired further inquiry with their vague nature. But something about her demeanor prevented me from pressing her about it.

Shortly after I began my quest for an answer that made sense to my child’s mind, the tests began. My ponderings became genuine at that point. I had grown legitimately curious about the person called “father.” I suppose that my infantile wonderings had inspired her to procure this man for me. I distinctly remember a short period in which my mother brought me to the county courthouse for several paternity tests. I was given a cheek swab and my thumb prints were taken to later be compared with those of the man present at that particular appointment. There were several candidates, but none of them seemed at all interested in me. I stared at them from my spot on the courthouse bench while we waited for the tester to call us. They stared back, but never smiled or spoke to me. I wondered how my mother had even gotten them to come, they showed absolutely no enthusiasm or curiosity. Did any of these men even want to be my father? I didn’t see much point in those exercises if I would walk away empty handed in any case. It never occurred to me to ask my mother why she didn’t remember who he was herself or why there were so many men that she thought it could be. In my later years, I threw around the question of prostitution, but she had been gone for some time by then and the answer would forever elude me. Now that I look back, I think it more probable that she wanted to prove maternity not to find a father for me, but rather so that she could start receiving child-support checks. I found it mildly amusing, how the motives of those around us when we were young became clearer and clearer as time went by. Innocence is a fleeting thing, a rare jewel of the human world.

If any of the tests came back positive, no one ever told me about it. I expect that one of them must have been a match and then became a matter of record because a few years later, my adoptive mother showed me a picture of a man that she said my foster care agency assumed was my father. She told me that his name was James Brown. I remember walking through the hallway at school after that, daydreaming about what it would be like if my mother were still alive and my father was married to her. Would Aisha Brown be a different girl than Aisha Johnson? Would she have a family that loved her, a family that smiled all the time and spent time together? Now that I read the name again, it doesn’t look natural. I sometimes wonder if “James Brown” could have been an invention of my adoptive mother, just a prop to give me closure and answers at that point. But I didn’t have any reason to be suspicious of it then, I had learned by that time not to speak to fosters about my biological family and hadn’t pressed her with any questions about him. Reactions to any mention of your biological family as a foster child often brought on such repercussions as anger, unspoken accusations of ungratefulness, pity, and lectures on the shortcomings of your family. It came to a point when I was even uncomfortable if someone else brought up my mother in front of my foster parents.

At around the time when puberty set in, shortly after the James Brown occurrence, I grew angry. My emotions swirled and I went from dreamy fantasies of the perfect family to raged indignation at the no-good who’d abandoned me. How could he just leave me and my mother all alone? He had a child, a responsibility. Who the hell was he to just walk away? For crying out loud, it wasn’t as if I didn’t need him. Where was he on my birthdays? On Christmas? Where was he when I scraped my knees and when I was in the hospital having surgery? Where was he when I was being bullied and when I started cutting myself? When I attempted suicide, where was he? Where was he when I got tossed down the trash chute of the foster care system, when my foster parents neglected me and when I was being abused? Where was he when my mother died? If he had been there for her, for us, she might still be alive. My sister and I wouldn’t have been taken away and she wouldn’t have been alone. Things could have been so different, we could have been a family… I remember one conversation that I had with a guidance counselor at grief camp. I’ve never been able to sleep in strange places and that night was no exception. So I got out of my bunk and walked across the building to get a drink from the fountain. One of the counselors was doing rounds and caught me. I didn’t want to get in trouble for being up past curfew, so I told her that I was thinking about my dad and that was what was keeping me up. As a child I was very manipulative, a quality that often worked in my favor. She detained me for nearly an hour talking about him, a period that I would rather have spent in my dorm than talking about my father’s uselessness. It aggravated me to hear the excuses she made for him. She said that he’d probably had a tough time himself and that he had problems of his own to work out. I called her on it and told her that I didn’t care what he had going on, he was supposed to be a father. Adults have responsibilities like that. I realize now that she was probably just trying to make me feel better about the situation in a way that I could make sense of and feel better about, but I didn’t hate him any less after that.

A couple of years later, when I was fourteen, I decided to ask my caseworker if it could be arranged for me to meet him. I wanted nothing more than to tell him off and ask him what right he had to treat me like I was garbage, but I lied about my reasoning. I knew that I wouldn’t have a chance if she knew that all I wanted to do was cuss at him. But no one would help me anyway. Everyone that I dealt with in connection with that request kept asking me why. I thought that they should have drawn a fairly obvious conclusion, that I was coming of age and wanted to know the man who was my father. I had an inkling of his feelings for me already and knew that he probably didn’t want to see me. When I’d been adopted, I was told that the department of child services had tracked him down and inquired as to whether he wanted full or partial custody. He said no. Knowing that he’d been told about me, knew that I was his daughter and didn’t care about me at all hurt. I felt unwanted, unloved, like a product that was put in the clearance aisle. Sometimes I wished that I’d never been born. What kind of life did I lead anyway? I was a foster kid, enough said. The only reason I had “parents” taking care of me was because the state paid them. I was being adopted because I came with a baby sister, we were a package deal. What was the worth of someone like me?

I felt like a nothing. My outlook was bleak. To help myself cope, whenever I faced emotions or situations that I couldn’t handle, I went inside my head. To avoid the realization that I was alone and unwanted, I pictured him changing his mind about me, realizing what a mistake he’d made when he let me go. He would track me down, knock on my front door, and beg to be a part of my life as a father should. I would calmly tell him that it was too late, that he’d failed me all my life and that I didn’t need him anymore. I would tell him to get off my porch, turn around, and close the door in his face. This tactic worked for a while, and eventually I moved on through the milestones of my teen years. I busied myself with schoolwork, clubs, and volunteering. His existence became as benign to me as it’d been when I was a young child. When he did enter my mind, I silently reminded myself that I was the girl with only one parent, the child of Eve, and I moved on to other things.

I thought that I was finished with his memory, his legacy of absence. But when daily life with my new parents became abusive, I began to fantasize about him again, this time in a positive light. I needed a hero who would stand up for me, and since that person didn’t exist in real life, I made it so that he existed in my head. While my abuser screamed at me, yelled at and insulted me and threw every shortcoming and disappointment of my young life in my face, the smell of cigarettes in my nostrils as his rancid breath clouded around me, I went into my head once more and began to picture my father as a war hero. He was a strong marine who’d been gone to fight in the Middle East and was returning to me after his tour of duty. He would pull me into his arms in front of my house and swing me around before he pulled me into a hug. He would be big and strong enough to beat my abuser to a bloody pulp and would crush his spirit like he was crushing mine. This vision offered me small comfort as I tried to convince myself that there was salvation somewhere. Two years after the abuse started, I suffered a psychological breakdown from the buildup of mental, verbal, and emotional abuse levelled at me for hours a night. My psyche couldn’t take it anymore and I crumpled. The police intervened and so did the department of child services. The abuse stopped, and after a brief period of heavy stress and enduring a barrage of accusing glances and remarks from my abuser’s family for having broken the silence, I was safer than I had been in a long time. With therapy and weekly check-ins with a caseworker, my mind began to heal. I no longer spent every waking moment worrying about whether or not he would be there when I got home, what would happen to me the next day and the next week and after that. I started taking one way to and from school again as I was no longer afraid that his friends would jump me on my way like he said he would have them do. I could focus on the lectures in class, not on his screaming and the words levelled at me during our last encounter. Eventually I stopped crying, stopped cutting myself, and realized that I had a life and that I could live it. It was what I made it. I moved on to bigger problems and bigger goals, picked up a few hobbies, and opted for activities that made me feel useful. I molded myself slowly into a young woman that I could be proud of. My father fell back into the shadows once again, where he’s resided my whole life.

I’m grown now and I know that I’ve been through a lot for someone my age. But looking at myself in the mirror, at the person I’ve become, I’m not afraid. I am not the same scared, angry little girl whose bitterness soaked into the very ground beneath her feet. I am a woman, a woman who can care for herself and make her own dreams come true. I have a man in my life who loves me, a sister who I adore, and an extended family who’s been more involved in my life now than ever before. I’ve realized that I can trust, and I’ve found a person to share my life with without fearing that he’ll do to me what my father did to my mother. I know that he loves me, and I love myself. I love who I am and I became who I am because of everything that’s happened to me through the years. I’ve decided that never again will I be someone’s victim. Never again will I hide in the corner while someone hurts me. I am strong, I am independent, I am loved, and I am me.