Dear Old "Dad"

I have been thinking about you lately. Thinking about everything you said to me and every way you hurt me. I have been thinking about how I felt about it then and how I feel, or I guess I feel, about it now.

I have been thinking a lot about what I might say to you if I wasn’t afraid.

I think I have a list of things I would like to say to you. To ask you.

Did you plan to make me who I was?

You named me Rachel, because you wanted me to be meek like a “lamb,” the meaning of the name. You named me after Rachel from the Bible. The second daughter, the one Jacob preferred. You taught me to be silent and compliant, never to complain. My hair, which I was always told was my most beautiful feature; you never allowed me to cut above my shoulders, except for once to support a charity because your peers were doing so (you always had to impress them). My hair was a selling point. My hair was my beauty. Did you have this dark path set for me from my birth?

You were never my “father”. Biologically, yes, but never really. You hurt me in ways that I wouldn’t wish on the person I hate the most, you. You began using me for your personal fun when I was three years old. That is one of my earliest memories. Do you think I would have forgotten? And don’t think for a second that I had forgotten about you loaning me out to your friend when I was that young. I would go to bed and cry at night, scared that someone would hurt me, and you would walk in with that bear. You remember. That bear that played “Beautiful Dreamer” when you pulled it. You said you loved me, and you pulled that bear so I would sleep. That song still plays in my nightmares. I kept that bear because it was a part of me. I can’t look at it. It is hidden somewhere because I had flashbacks every time I saw it. But I can't throw it away.

Do you remember the “discipline” you would give me? Throwing me across the room when I was seven because I didn’t wipe the table? You hurt my ankle and didn’t take me to the doctor. I still fall because it will lock up or turn because of that injury. You came into my room that night to tell me you loved me, but you had to discipline me, and you gave me a locket. You never loved me. You loved what you got from me.

You made it my job to provide food and shelter for a house of 6. You made threats that my sister would have to start doing my job if I quit. I love my sisters dearly. I would never want them to feel that pain and shame that you put on me with “my job”. So night after night, I continued to go to work. From the time I was 9 to the time I was 20, I did “my job”. If I fought, I was hit, burned, whipped, and made to “practice” with you. If I didn’t satisfy your greedy customers, the same happened. When I was 16, I continued doing “my real job”, I was doing school, protecting my sisters from you, teaching them because your lazy wife wouldn’t, and I had to get another job to make sure my sisters actually saw food on the table and had lights. It turned out; I loved that job. I wanted to be there forever. I told you I was going to move there when it was legal, and you threatened the girls and made me quit. I still feel the humiliation from quitting. I felt like everything had fallen worse than before. Everyone I worked with was family. I lost my family in one day. You made me quit my favorite job and get one close to town. One where you didn’t think I would have the opportunity to succeed.

Did you expect them to notice you? Did you know they sat with me while I had panic attacks because of you? Did you know that they saw the tears coming down my face in the mornings and the cuts on my wrists? Did you know they sent me home with food so I could afford the electric bill? Did you expect them to help me gain the courage to leave and eventually report you to the police? Your plan backfired. You should have let me go and walked away from the evil. Now it is too late for you to get back your reputation because the people you sent me to saved my life.

I wish I could convey every thought and feeling I have about you now. Then, I reacted to everything in fear. Now, I am still afraid. But you should be more afraid of me. I have gotten strong. I am not that “meek lamb” you named me. My name is Maddie Rose. Do you know the German meaning of Maddie? I think it sums me up. It is “Battle Maiden.” My real dad named me that. You know him. The man who has been a father to me for over seven years is now legally my father of 1 year. He named me “Battle Maiden,” while you claimed I couldn’t fight for myself. He named me after someone else, but I think that the meaning is more than a coincidence.

There. I said much of what I want to. Not nearly enough.