Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,
I keep telling myself that I'm finally going to send the letters I keep writing. Because I write you all the time, Dad. I feel like I am forever writing you. Forever trapped in a loop of memories that I want to share with you. Forever stuck on repeat.

I keep telling myself that I'll send this one. I'm really going to put that stamp on it and I'm going to go to the post office and mail it. I'm going to finally start the conversation that I've been dying to start for years now. I say those things and then I never finish the letters and they never get sent. I chicken out every time. I did send one letter. I sent it to Auntie, because she wouldn't give me your address and it got lost in the mail.

Five pages worth of memories and the desire to have you back in my life, lost in the mail.

I can't recreate that letter. I can't recreate all the years you've missed out on. I'm not that good of a writer.

I suppose I should start off simply. Tell you that I love you. I miss you. I don't care that all the time and all the drugs have separated us. I just want to have you back in my life. I just want to start over.

I want to start a dialogue with you. Not a monologue of monotonous details spread out like a map of childhood to adulthood. But I have no idea where to start.

Do I start from the last time I saw you, in flesh, 19 years ago? Do I start from 13, when I sent the last letter I would send; the one that said I hated you and that it was your fault that Memere died and that I never wanted to hear from you again? Where do I start, Dad? Do I start with an apology?

I am 25. I'll be 26 this year, which seems, both, difficult and easy to believe. I feel like I've been 30 my whole life, so 26 shouldn't be so bad.

I don't remember what you sound like. I don't remember your smell. I don't remember the small details about you. Though, when I look at the pictures, I recognize myself in you. We have the same pointed chin, the same toothy grin, and, though I never see your feet, the same flat feet. I feel like I look more like you than Mom, most of the time. Though, admittedly, there are times that I look just like Mom when she was younger.

My hair is still curly. Though, it has lost some of the wildness over the years. I'm not sure if that is age or other factors. My eyes are still brown. Sometimes black, sometimes caramel colored. I am incredibly short. Okay, maybe not incredibly. I am about 5 foot, 3 inches tall. I think Mom and I are the same height.

I write all the time. Not just letters to you, but stories and poems and blogs. I finished writing my first novel in January. I'm in editing right now. But I keep second-guessing myself on it.

I vote Democrat. Obama is my second favorite President (the first being John Quincy Adams). I am a feminist (much to Mom's and Chris' chagrin). I like to consider myself a Humanist, really. I'm far too opinionated for my own good (again, to Mom's chagrin). I don't believe in the Death penalty, the Three Strikes law, Circumcision or Spanking your kids. I'm an atheist; though I was a Muslim for a short time. And a Christian, against my will, growing up. I like women, as well as men

I hate my job. I hate feeling like I've failed myself in staying where I am unhappy for so long. But I am poor. What else is there to do?

I love travelling. And I run away from home as often as possible. Though I always come back. I am in love with the Ocean.

I've never tried Pot. But I drink. I don't drink as often as I'd like, because I can't justify spending money on it. I've never had my ears pierced. I don't have any tattoos.

I wish on stars, even though my wishes never come true. I love thunderstorms and old movies. I have more books than I could possibly read because I find their presence comforting.

I got married in a red dress and barefoot because I look best in red and I hate shoes. I was married on the first of September, 2011, in a court room by the Judge. I've been married almost three years.

I am missing a portion of my pelvis (on the left side) and I have a rod in my leg (on the right side) because of a car accident that happened October 19th, 2009. I am not crippled. I can walk and run and jump. I just ache some days more than others. And the rain, though it makes me sleep better, seems to seep into what bones I have in my pelvis.

Some days I hate you. I hate that you have missed out on so much of my life. I hate that you took drugs. I hate that you never wrote me again. I hate that I feel like you abandoned me.

Some days I hate myself. I hate that I told you never to write me again. I hate that I never sent the letters I wanted to after that. I hate that I didn't run back to the mailbox and rip that letter to shreds. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for all the cruel and vicious words a hurting 13 year-old wrote you in a moment of weakness. I'm sorry that I let all my hatred and feelings of betrayal and abandonment take over. I'm sorry that I never wrote you again. I'm sorry I've not sent any letters since then.

Take this for what you will, Dad. I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering if we could've had a real relationship. I don't want to wake up one morning to find a note from Auntie saying that you have died in prison. I don't want to wonder if I could've fixed this.

I never stopped loving you.
Sarai.

Dear Younger Self,

Dear Younger Self,
Tonight I realized something about us, staring at the loaves of "Sunbeam" bread with "Not by bread alone" on the packaging and the little girl's head bowed in prayer.

Donnie said something then, when I refused to buy that bread and picked up a different brand, that made sense. He said that, in a way, the way we grew up was good for me. In that, it caused me to look at things, question things, develop my own opinions, question why I have those opinions.

It was awful, what we went through. I wouldn't change a moment of it though. Everything we have been through, everything we've done was for a reason.

I have to believe it was for a reason.

The majority of the time, you will like who you are. Even though there is still the underlying self-loathing. Even though you still question your every decision. Even though you wish you could just fix everything and make it perfect.

The trials, the tribulations, etc. I promise they will be worth it. At the very least, I believe they will be worth it.

love,
Me.

Dear Pat Robertson,

Dear Pat Robertson,
Its not very often that you have the power to so completely shut down my mental capacities that it takes me this long to recover. But boy, have you really outdone yourself this time!

On your worst days you are ranting about how there needs to be a "vomit" button on Facebook so you can click it any time you see homosexuals kissing or how Haiti has supposedly made a pact with the Devil. And let's not forget your comment on Feminism: "a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians."

I could spend a decade writing about just how WRONG you are on SO many topics, but today is not that decade.

However, this time I'm going to talk about something you said that actually made me... move toward tolerating you. However, I'm very confused. VERY confused.

"I think there are men who are in a woman's body," he said. "It's very rare. But it's true -- or women that are in men's bodies -- and that they want a sex change. That is a very permanent thing, believe me, when you have certain body parts amputated and when you have shot up with various kinds of hormones. It's a radical procedure. I don't think there's any sin associated with that. I don't condemn somebody for doing that." (huffington post)

Wait... Did you just say it was okay to be transgendered?!

 Hell just seriously froze over. Satan's ass is getting freezer burn right now.

The thing I don't understand is this: You are so grossly homophobic and like to back it up with outdated verses from an outdated book, but you are cool with a woman becoming a man or a man becoming a woman?

Wouldn't that go directly against your beliefs? I mean, God makes no mistakes right? So why was this person born a man when they were supposed to be a woman? Wouldn't that IMPLY that God isn't as perfect as we are led to believe?

And if a woman is born a man, but becomes a woman and has sex with men, wouldn't that make her a homosexual? I mean, she was born a MAN and she has sex with MEN. Doesn't that kind of spit in your belief pudding?

And I'm not knocking anyone who is transgendered. I still feel like a man trapped in a woman's body and it has been a big struggle for me to determine if I can be happy as I am (as a woman) or if I want to change my body. I am actually really glad you said something like that, because it gives me a small (VERY SMALL) bubble of hope for the human race as a whole.

I just have one really serious question for you: Are you on drugs?

sincerely,
Sarai

Dear Mom,

Dear Mom,
Over the years, I have thought of many things I would like to say to you. Some of them kind and full of love, some of hurt and some of anger. There are so many things that I don't even know where to begin. I suppose I'll start somewhere and go from there.

It hurt my feelings when you told me that I needed to give up my "whimsical attraction to other women." It isn't whimsy, Mom. I am genuinely attracted to other women in a sexual manner. I can't change who I am, and I'm not sure I would want to. I suppose in my mind I thought it would be easy for you to accept me. Uncle Dick, Aunt Janice, Aunt Becky and Uncle Kevin are all homosexual. The statistic in our family is 1 in 3 is homosexual. Somehow I thought that would make you more accepting of my own sexual proclivities. I suppose I shouldn't have assumed that just because we have that statistic that you would be accepting. After all, your grandmothers never came to terms with it either.

It hurts that you are gone so much lately. I feel like I never really get to see you or talk to you. And I feel like when we do hang out you are mad at me. I feel sometimes like you just use me to take care of Chris when you aren't there and that is both annoying and angering.

I'm mad that you stayed married to W. as long as you did. I suppose it's time to admit that. I know you kept clinging to the belief that God gave him to you and I know you keep saying I need to stop being mad at God for it. But if God gave W. to us and God is omnipotent, then God is cruel. He knew what W. was going to do long before he did it. He knew that he was going to starve Chris and beat us. He knew that W. was going to take advantage of you. He knew that W. was going to take advantage of me. He knew W. was going to try to turn Hannah against us. And that he would mostly succeed. But you stayed. And I know you loved him, I know you thought it was somehow God's plan.

I'm not angry that you couldn't defend us anymore. It wouldn't have mattered. W. was going to do what he would, regardless of your intervention. He would have just shamed us into not telling you anyway.

There were good times, though Mom. I do remember some of the good points. Like learning to play chess and trips to the Children's Museum. Learning about Sacajawea and Corrie Ten Boom and heroes of the Bible. There were fishing trips and moments where I felt really close to you. I feel closer to you now than I did then.

I was afraid to be close to you. I was afraid you would die, especially after your massive miscarriage. I was afraid that if I cared more than I already did you would die and I'd be all alone. Sometimes I still feel that way. I'm afraid to love you because I know it will hurt more than anything when you are gone. And we all go at some point or another. I couldn't stand to see you deteriorate the way Grandma Bobbi did. I just couldn't.

I still feel lingering guilt from some of the thoughts I had when I was younger. Thoughts that if you, Chris and Hannah all died that you would all be better off because things were so terrible for a while there. I felt like a terrible daughter and sister because I wanted you to be gone so that you wouldn't suffer. But at the same time I couldn't imagine losing you. And I was afraid to lose you. I'm still afraid to lose you.

You're my best friend, Mom. In spite of hurt feelings and anger and fear. In spite of all that, I can't imagine what it would be like to not have you. And I can't imagine not talking to you on the phone for silly reasons or going to O'Charley's all the time. Or sharing some of my random music with you.

I suppose all of this has just been supposition to say, I love you Mom. More than any other human being on this earth. More than I could ever fully express. And even though you have hurt my feelings and pissed me off, I wouldn't be the person I am today without you. And, most of the time, I'm pretty happy with the person I am. Bisexuality, hatred for God and religion, lack of forgiveness for W., currently divergent political views and all.

love,
Sarai

Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,

I don't know what to say to you. I don't know where to begin or to end. Where do I even start? The beginning or the end?

Auntie says that I should forget you. That I am better off without you in my life. She says that you have done many horrible things, many awful things. She says I am better off without you. Maybe she is right.

My friends say that I should forget you. That I am better off without you in my life. That you are a druggie, a criminal. You are never going to change and what closure am I going to gain? What answer will I receive? Will reaching you give me any sense of peace? Will finding you give me any sense of closure? Or will it just bring me down further?

Am I using closure as a crutch, Dad? Do I need it to live? To move on?

Why do I even care anymore? Why do I bother? If you wanted to contact me you would, wouldn't you? You know where Auntie is, you could write her and ask her for my information. You could try. Does it mean that you don't care since you never ask about me? Or do you ask about me and she doesn't mention it because she is tired of me putting myself through all this?

Its my fault that you don't write anymore. That you haven't written in ten years. Nobody really knows that but me, so it is understandable that they can't comprehend why I try so hard to find you. And I need your forgiveness, Dad. I can live without the closure. I can live with you not caring about me anymore. But I need you to forgive me.

Forgive that thirteen year old girl who was trying desperately to recover from the loss of her grandmother. Forgive her for being hateful. Pardon her for hating you, at the time. She blamed you for Memere's death. But she was also hurting from promises that were broken as they were made. Forgive her for sending that hateful letter, so many years ago, saying she never wanted to talk to you again, because it was all your fault. Forgive her for falling prey to those horrible feelings building up in her chest.

Forgive me, Dad.

If I don't try to get your forgiveness, if I don't try to say I'm sorry, if I fail, I will never forgive myself. I can't live with myself, knowing that its my fault and that I didn't tell you I was sorry. Because I am sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry.

I miss you. I love you. I hate you. I wish you would give me some sign of something! Anything, really. I just want to know that sometimes you wonder about me. I just want to know that you can forgive my stupidity, that you still love me. Or feel some kind of emotion towards me.

And is that wrong? Is it wrong that I want this from you? I might receive some kind of closure, knowing I made the attempt. I tried. I worked hard, trying to fix it. Knowing it may never be fixed.

I've tried to cut you out of me. I've tried to drink you away. I've tried to lose you somewhere in my memories, far from me. I've tried everything I can think of to relieve this horrific guilt I feel for everything. I've been self-destructive and tried to rebuild. I've done things I'm not proud of, things I long to go back to, but I can't let myself. But in the end, you are a part of me.

You are in my smile, in my laugh. You are in my bloodstream, you are a part of me that I can never get rid of. No matter how hard I try. You are wired into me, just like our shared DNA. We are intrinsically entwined.

What do I do? Do I try to fix this? Do I let it go? Could I let it go?

Are you a crutch? Is this just a shameless cry for sympathy and attention?

I need some sort of resolution. What resolution do I expect? It has been ten years. Ten years and I can't forgive myself, or you. I can't let it go and I can't make it right.

So where does this leave us?