Dear, ol' dad.

I'm writing this letter to you in the hopes that I can shake some of your infectious turmoil. It's me, your oldest daughter. Your first born. When I look back on my life (all twenty-six years of it), I can remember every instance where you were mocking my appearance, or critiquing it to the point that I was in tears. Every time I look in the mirror, to this day, I see myself through the eyes of an angry man with no compassion in his soul. I can't count on my fingers how many times I've broken down crying after something you've said about me, or to me--or for me. You've ruined my self-esteem, corrupted what self-worth means to me. When I hold a hammer, I hear your voice in the back of my head, telling me I'm holding it wrong--that it's my fault; that I'm stupid, that I don't make sense, that I don't think.

Once I have a daughter, I'll tell her how beautiful she is. I'll tell her how capable, and smart, and strong I know she is. I'll lift her up, and never once dim her light. I'll fan her flames and make sure she knows that my life wouldn't be nearly as bright without her sparkle. My children will be respected and loved, something I wish you prioritized. I promise I'll never be anything like you, and if even for a moment I catch myself becoming that angry, mean man that's forever stitched into the lines of my being--I'll do something about it.

I won't let it affect them--or let him latch on.