Dear Father

I'm really mad.  I'm sick of people.

They want to get to get in my face about stuff that they don't even know about.  They want to judge me, break me, and knock me down for everything I stand for, everything I have stood for, and for all my hopes and dreams.  They want to crush them.  They feel as though I am the reason for everything that has gone wrong in the past two hundred and eighty-five days.  They say I don't have the slightest amout of virile within the blood pumping through my veins.  

If I'm the reason why my family fell apart, then something went terribly wrong along the way long before all the trash started hitting the fan.  I'm not washing my hands of everything that took place, but I'm also not going to accept people throwing so many retarded accusations at me.  

I did what I thought was right.  You might think I was wrong, but I never asked you.  I never asked any of you.  

I won't give you a recount of everything that happened.  I didn't want to do this.  I figured publishing such a thing as a rant about everything would be a bad idea.  But you know what I realized?  The entire world knows.  Everyone from my next door neighbor to the Congressman's son has been bah-ing about how I need to be set onto the right path.

As though I'm on the Dark Side of the Force or something.  Who knows, maybe I am.

My brother is nineteen years old and wants to be a US Marine.  And they're blaming me for his actions, for his problems, and for his decisions.  Am I the one that has to finish raising him?  If so, then I'd like to see why the person who issupposed to never did it in the first place.

You've got one kid left out of an original five.  Hmmmm.  Maybe there's something wrong here.  And you might say, "Congrats!  Your kids are probably on the road to success!"  You can blame the children for so long until one is in a mental hospital (or was), a daughter who has two children, one with an ex-Latin King and drug dealer, and a son who lives with her.  And the youngest son who almost despises everything abut his father.

When you get a phone call from your brother who is desperate, scared, absolutely terrified, and begging you to help him, are you going to hang up?  I'd hope not.

I did what I could.  I offered my they didn't.  I provided him a place to live, clothing and the proper things to get by, tutors for the classes he struggled in, and I talked to him.  Instead of... what he did.  

Tell me, my dear father, why did you change our room into your biking sanctuary?  Tell me, dad, if you love us so much, why would you remove us from your health insurance and force your son to repay you for having to go to the hospital?  My Deacon of the church that I so love, why do you ban me from attending TEC because I didn't say hi to your properly?  

If I'm so wrong, then why am I told to fix your reputation and why do you attempt to force me to keep my mouth shut about everything?  I can, as I am not going to talk about the actual events that took place themselves, but I beg you to answer this one question?  If I'm so wrong, and if everything I say is a aggregation of lies, then why are you afraid of what I'm saying?  You have the reputation and prestige to get the truth to shine forth.  

Oh wait.

Maybe I'm telling the truth.  

I'm sorry, but telling your kids to do the right thing is easy.  But did you ever teach him why?  Did you ever take us out to pass a football?  Did you ever take us anywhere?!  You chose to go on a week long biking trip as opposed to our familyvacation.  You chose to ride your bike for two and a half hours each day instead of spending time with any of your kids.  You take us to Catholic Cathedrals to flaunt what rank you have in the Church, and you use your title as a way to prevent me from pursuing my own faith.  The day after your son leaves, you take all his things and place them in garbage bags to be given away.  You never called me once.  Ever.  I tried to fix things.  Remember?  I came with my girlfriend.  I sat in our living room on Christmas.  And you pretended like you ever gave two cents.  

I emailed you.  I told you the great news: I got accepted into Augustana.  You never even replied.  

You want to cal me a terrible person?  You want to accuse me of ruining everything I am?  

Tell me, then... How is it that without you that I can graduate from high school as at least number sixteen in my class with a GPA no less than 3.7, in the National Honors Society, with more than you had ever given me?  

Don't use that threat, no.  I'm sick of you yelling.  I'm sick of you telling me that I outta respect you because youadopted me.  That's such a bullshit excuse for me to respect you.  

Why is it that when I confronted you about everything on that night, you screamed at me and made me leave?  

I'm going to say this, and I want you to hear me loud and clear.  

I won't say I don't care what you think about me or what you say when it comes to matters such as these.  I will tell you to keep your mouth shut because you don't know what you're talking about.  If you truly gave a damn about where I'm going to end up or my family, you wouldn't message me in a chat on Facebook or send me a useless message blaming me for everything.  I don't care if your my neighbor, and I don't care if you're the Congressman of the 17th District or his son, but get your facts straight.

If you're okay with fathers mentally abusing their sons and ever laying a hand on them, well, F.O.D.  Go away.

If I could tell my father one thing, I'd tell him this:

Good riddance.