Subtle

Daddy.

I used to barely sleep when you would let me go with you to the woods. All night I was afraid you would leave without me if I fell asleep. I would be up by 5 am and ready. A six-year-old girl with a sloppy ponytail brushed up with young, uncoordinated fingers. My jeans were the ratty old ones. I knew if I wore my new ones, you would make me change. And maybe then you would leave while I changed. I hated the old jeans. They were ugly, ill-fitting. Too short and too long in the crotch. And you made fun of them. You made fun of me regularly. I used to think it was funny when you did. But, still, even in your mockery, I wanted to go with you to wander through the woods to collect firewood. I was excited. I posted on the couch, waiting for you.

Mom would wander into the living room, terrycloth robe clutched high against her neck. Thick glasses and a yawning, naked face. She would set up a coffee thermos for you. She would eye me, sigh, and set up a second thermos with hot chocolate. When you came into the room, you watched me too. Then looked over to Mom and held her stare in a private, wordless conversation. My chance to go would hang in the weight of that stare.

You thumped me on the head with your thumb and said, “let's go.” I leaped from the couch and raced to the truck.

The sun barely kissed the edges of the horizon, slowly burning away the dark sky. I tried not to bounce in my seat. I wanted you to see me as a serious helper. On the way out of town, you would buy me a donut, and I would lick my fingers and wipe them on my shirt, so I didn't get your seat dirty. I was mindful of you and your moods, even then.

We would climb the mountain roads, winding past streams and sleepy cabins. Every so often, you would stop and stare into the brush, looking for tags on fallen trees. I would sing along with the radio, and you would correct my lyrics. I would tell you my dreams, and you would correct those, too. I took your words seriously as you added a healthy dose of negativity to everything I hoped to be. I never forgot them, to my dismay. Alone on the long drive, you had plenty of time to burst every bubble I had, yet you never filled in the reality with new hopes. You left me there, shattered. But you did it so subtly, a lulling calm that I eagerly erased every plan I created with your encouragement. How desperate I was to let you in and do your damage.

We stopped and parked close when you found a fallen tree cleared for removal. I copied your every move. I took a last sip from the thermos for as long as you did and pretended the chocolate didn't burn my tongue. A sigh and a swipe with the back of my hand over my mouth, just like you. Then I watched you fire up your chainsaw and use brute, young Dad strength to chop up a tree. I spun in circles under the bright sun and skipped a wide berth around you. I made sure to be in your line of sight; I learned my lesson last year. When you whistled, I came running and helped carry logs to the truck. The bark scraped my arms, the wood turned my t-shirt black, and tiny pill bugs fell onto my shoes, but I kept my mouth shut. I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be valid. I wanted to be what you needed.

When the truck was full, you would say, “Good Job, Babydoll.”

I would blush and shrug. No big deal. But that ‘good job’ got me out of bed so early. That one phrase meant everything.

I wish I could leave this here. I wish I had these sweet memories of us working hard as a team and singing with the radio. I wish I could remember us together, eating donuts and giggling through a sugar high.

As an adult, I see it. I see your grooming. I see your words and actions leaving me hanging and stringing me along. It took me a long time to find it. You pull strings and play us against ourselves. You are subtle in your abuse. You let me abuse myself with your guidance. You taught me to be self-deprecating and question every outfit. Is this stupid? Is this slutty? Do I still look like that small child with a muddy, donut-glazed tee and bad jeans? I still see her looking back at me. Not a hard worker giving up a Saturday, but someone falling apart and desperate to keep it together, alone, for a ‘good job, babydoll.’

I'm still worried about being left behind. I recognize it now as fear, a silly one at that. Even then, I didn’t trust you and still wanted you. I tried to impress you. I gave you my hopes and dreams, and you would twist my words, changing them and putting them down. You created self-doubt and fear of the world around me. By the time I was old enough to start working on a dream, I was too twisted around to know what I wanted. You spun my head so early on in my life. I am unsure what thoughts are mine and what ones you placed there. But, I can guarantee none of them are pleasant.

I wish that little girl knew that you would give me up completely one day and stop calling. I wish she knew to focus on herself and ignore your advice. I wish she didn’t soak up your every word and hold them close.

With love,

Your Daughter