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dear dad,

i wondered how long it would take me to write you your first letter. it’s fitting that i am writing you on a Christmas. however, i never thought i would come writing to you in any sort of distress. i’m sure you are privy to some information of the goings on here in this world with me, though, so i figured…why not.

it’s 2018. this would be the 9th Christmas that you have missed on this earth. i’m actually blown away by that number. i have been under the impression that it was only the 8th. you left us in february, 2010, though. so…it is the 9th. 9 sounds so much larger than 8. just a year, though. one lousy-ass year.

you always ruined Christmas. i’d ask you if you remember, but i know you do. they are impossible memories to forget. from the age of 7 on up, it was like your own personal vendetta. what i never figured out, though, was if that vendetta was against me or Jesus? at times i wondered if it was against me for loving Jesus. i know how much that pissed you off. i’d go as far as to use the word hate. you hated it.

i have issues with God…but you, dad…man. how on earth anyone could hate Jesus…? let alone so fiercely as you did at times…i just never understood. you know me, though. always wanting to give the benefit of the doubt (something i’m accused of not doing these days) to you. maybe you did not actually hate him…that is what i would think at times. maybe you were just that wounded. but no. it was hate. you had some serious authority issues…and you thought you were equal, if not better, than Jesus. i remember. plus, i disbanded the wounded theory as soon as it entered my head-the wounded are the very people who flock to Jesus. who love Jesus. who seek shelter in Him. even you weren’t that much of a contradiction.

is that why, though? is that why you made every Christmas the most miserable day of the year? ok…maybe not every year. you had made other days more miserable than you made Christmas day a few years there. every year it was intentional for you. a mission. i think you even planned out the day in advance. some years you started the Christmas day hell right at 12:01 a.m. i’ve never liked Christmas. i try. ironically it’s my favorite holiday. i love it for what it is as its core. but i fucking hate Christmas.

mom never helped, you know. she never planned it ahead like you. mom was just miserable and that day pulled out all of the misery in her. i was just caught in the crossfire. you were hellbent on torture, destruction and total ruin. it was more about killing a part inside of me than killing the day for you. there was sport in it for you. you always killed for sport…or vengeance…or your own version of justice. i never stood a chance. at any age, i never stood a chance.

it appears as if f is keeping a bit of your tradition alive. however, he is just a miserable bastard. miserable bastards cannot stand happiness or peace from anyone around them. so, it is his duty to bleed me dry on any holiday, birthday or anniversary. if the day is important he will see to it that he makes it not special. men aren’t great with special occasions to start. add in a pinch of asshole and the woman is always doomed.

i’m sure you are aware of the awful blow i received last week. if you weren’t before, i know you are now. i hate it. i hate everything about it. i also hate that, of course, the messenger couldn’t wait to throw the punch until after the holidays. somehow i know it’s my fault, though.

it is now the day after Christmas. i fell asleep writing you last night any can’t remember where i was going with this. or perhaps i just don’t feel like getting back in that frame of mind. so for now, dad, i will say goodbye.

i love you.


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