I didn't realize there was so much crying in this — Jane Wood
The last time I let my dad see me cry was when I was eleven years old. I was in sixth grade, and I was feeling left out in school. My mom understood. She would hug me and tell me it was going to be okay. She would tell me stories from when she was younger to make me feel better. She would try to make me laugh. My dad didn’t understand. Ever since I was little, I never cried that much at my dad’s house. There would be an occasional time where I twisted an ankle or fell while running around, but that was mostly it. I was usually told to stop complaining and walk it off.
One weekend, I started crying because I was having a hard time making friends. My dad came into my room, rolled his eyes, and asked what I was fussing about. I knew he wouldn’t understand. He specialized in sports, planning, and anything math related—not in providing emotional support. I told him so many times I needed a minute alone, but he followed me around the house until I would tell him what was wrong. I made up scenarios in my head for what would happen if I told him. He would probably tell me to “stop fucking fussing,” but I was already in tears and didn’t need his so-called words of advice. He sat on the edge of my bed staring at me while I bawled my eyes out until I eventually told him what was wrong. Surprisingly, I don’t remember what he said when I told him. I do remember that after that day, I didn’t ever want to cry in front of him again. I knew he would make it worse.
The first time I saw my dad cry was when I ruined our family trip. He had this extravagant vacation planned out for my family. He planned every second of every day down to the time it would take to walk from one place to another. One time he debated whether he should make a dinner reservation at six thirty or six forty. He listed all the pros and cons for each option, and when I started laughing and told him to chill out, he began lecturing about my ungrateful attitude. I decided to shut up after that. I started dreading the trip, knowing it would be two straight days of non-stop rushing from place to place that would drive me insane. I would never tell him how I actually felt, because I knew how much it meant to him. I came home from school feeling exhausted. My throat burned and I could barely stand up straight. I laid down on my bed and stared at my unpacked suitcase. That was the last thing I remembered that day. When I woke up Thursday morning, I was too sick to go to school. My mom told me to take a Covid test, and I stood there in shock as the second faint red line slowly started to appear.
Later that day, my dad came over to see me in his car. He mumbled something I couldn’t understand and I saw a single tear fall down his cheek as his eyes welled up with water. So many emotions rushed through me at once. I had never seen him cry. He was barely even crying. Part of me wanted to apologize. Part of me wanted to tell him to stop fucking fussing. I knew what he was going to say, or at least I thought I did. I figured that he would launch into a full-blown lecture about how ungrateful I am, and then bring in a bunch of other nonsense just for the fun of it. He would recall all of those times I didn’t listen to him. All those times I lied about my homework because he was putting too much pressure on me to be perfect. All those times when he scheduled his work around my sports games and I didn’t play up to his expectations. Turns out I was wrong. He just sat there and stared out the opposite window. I couldn’t stand seeing him tear up. For some reason it was worse than an hour-long lecture. Seeing him sad made my entire body burn. Or maybe that was the fever. I hated the way he made me feel sympathy for him after all the times he made me feel bad about myself. I hated the way that my first instinct was to hug him and apologize until I realized that even if I had a reason to apologize, he didn't deserve it. In that moment, I remembered every single time he yelled at me as I sat there speechless while invisible tears streamed down my cheek, forcing myself not to cry in front of him. I remembered all the times he told me how frustrating it was for him to go out of his way to come to every single sport game and help me with every single homework assignment when I never asked him to. But I also remember the times when he would take me out to dinner after my games. The times when we would laugh at each other’s jokes. The times when he told me he was proud of me.
Sometimes I don’t know what to think. It feels like my contrasting thoughts are constantly colliding together to a point where I can’t tell what is real. Sometimes he makes me happy, but it's usually only temporary. Most of the time I feel angry, trying to deal with the confusion and feeling of being overwhelmed by his rollercoaster of emotions. I never know what version of him I am going to get. One minute we are laughing together, and the next I see the anger rising up his face as his whole body turns cold and he transforms into his alter ego. Even when he reverts back to his normal self, I have to pretend like everything is great, like he didn't just scream at me while my stomach tied itself into a million little knots. It’s hard to have your trust constantly ripped away and pieced back together by someone who means so much to you. I tell myself I’m okay with it. I pretend that it doesn't bother me so I can hold on to the hope that maybe one day I will be good enough for him. The truth is, I’m not okay with it. His actions have had such a big impact on my life that I don't know if I will ever be able to forgive him. I wonder if he knows that for my three years of middle school I couldn't make friends because I was scared to put myself out there. I was afraid to trust people because I couldn’t handle another person telling me that I was not good enough. I wonder if he knows that I'm always scared of messing up, and I never give myself enough credit for the things I do right. I've come to the conclusion that no matter how perfect I am, he will never change. There will always be something I can do to be better, and he will always find a reason to pick on me whether it's valid or completely made up. He says he focuses on the bad things because he cares about me and wants me to be successful, but he is never there when I need him the most. He's too focused trying to fix me to match his vision of a perfect daughter, because in his eyes success is more important than happiness. Over the years, I have learned a lot of things. I have learned how to conceal my emotions, and to be skeptical of people because even the people you love can make you feel your worst. I have also learned a lot about myself. For the first time in a long time, I have friends that I can count on. I have people in my life that remind me I am enough. Sometimes my dad is one of those people—most of the time he’s not—and I'm sick of pretending I'm okay with it.
Jane Wood is a high school sophomore who loves art and animals. She spends most of her time watching movies, playing sports, and hanging out with friends. This is her first publication, and she is excited to continue writing.