Dear 2020,

   I don’t really have anything to talk about. I just felt like typing. And talking to you. I guess there is always something to talk about, really, just ramble on about. Especially when you talk as little as I do sometimes. Honestly, I think I say more to you in a letter than I would in a whole day!
   The thing is, I’m a little bummed about my Dad. I’ve never been a “Daddy’s girl” or as close to my Dad I was to my Mom, but things started to change in fourth grade. I realized, Hey. I don’t love this person. At the time, the thought of the perfect, loving family had been ingrained in me, so I thought I should just try harder.
   It was in fifth grade that I started to actively dislike him, and in sixth grade I had caught myself thinking, God, I hate him! Of course, I was embarrassed that I should think this and told myself that I didn’t hate him, I hated some of the things he did. In seventh grade, I now know that I hate him. And I feel bad. It isn’t really an active hate so much as avoiding him because I don’t like him and don’t want to talk to him.
   But I think today has changed that. I think today has seriously affected the way I see him, think about him. He has convinced me, through the ways that he treats my mother and me, that I never want a husband. I believe I shall look at men a bit differently from this day on. Because today was the worst day I have ever had with him, a day where seeing him triggered more gasping and crying.
    Because until today, it had simply been hate, contempt, whatever you want to call it. Until today, I simply dislike him and strived to be as far unlike him as I could. But today added a new emotion to my dislike. Today he added fear. He now adds to the stress in my life. I now try to limit to a number of words I say in front of him and carefully monitor how much emotion I show. I do not want him to come to my chorus concert tomorrow. I really do not.
    Because my friends have, on a good day, heard me saying that I do not want to go home. This is usually because I do not want to have to deal with my parents (with my father) and I do not want him to ruin the good mood I am currently in. They had asked why I didn’t want to go home, and I simply said that my father was an *******, and didn’t want to say anything more about it. And this is true; everyone who knows him, even his mother, would deem calling him an *******. Because he is. I just wonder what my friends, who have heard me use those lines those few times, heard me actively disliking someone when I dislike no one else, will wonder. I wonder what they will think when I come back after missing school, obviously injured and shaken. I wonder what they will think when they see me, dour and grim, dressed in black beside my father as we enter the school building for the chorus concert and rushing backstage as soon as possible to get away from him. Frowning when he makes fun of my friends, though they may be laughing themselves. I wonder what they will think.
   Perhaps, they will simply wonder if he is abusive. And I assure you, he is not. I simply think that he is just not a very good father. Or, perhaps like the teacher who does not work well with the student, perhaps he is a good father, just not the kind of father I need as a role model. Perhaps if our personalities had fit together better, like his and Sean’s, then things would have been better. Because I have to wonder if the lack of sufficient male role model (first, he stopped being at home, then we fought when he was) and instead overabundance of female role model (I am almost always by my mother’s side) is why I like both females and males, but females more.
   Haha, to think of how if my father read this, he would chuckle and completely disregard my words, unwilling to assume they hold any actual value. He would scoff at how wonderfully the apps that he, this morning, had dismissed as ridiculous were helping me.
   If I died, he wouldn’t blame himself. He wouldn’t think of the myriad ways that he could have been a better, more responsible, more caring father for me. He would blame me, and he would blame depression, saying that if I had simply followed his instructions more carefully, and perhaps not cried so often, that I could have easily been saved. He would blame depression and talk long and loud about how “nonsensical” and “absurd” it makes people. He would blame my mother, who has a line of depression in her family. He would blame everyone, everyone but himself, and mostly he would blame me, and weakness. Me and my inability to cope with the world the way he wanted me to. Instead of riding over the waves, like the apps greatly help me do, he wants me to dive straight through them. And I hate him for it, for I can see that when I check-out, for I know I will when he makes me dive, that I will keep hurting myself.
   I don’t want to talk about him anymore. It’s making me upset.



   Sometimes, I wish I could float away like a cloud on the soft Spring breezes that roll through. Simply glide away, like the dandelion puff that someone has made a wish on.
   In my good moments, I will usually wish on dandelions for things like happiness, or more good times. In my bad moments, which I think are more often, I wish for death.
   Sometimes I wonder if depression can **** you. I don’t mean suicide, I mean, can you simply drop dead from sadness? I think this is a silly thought. But I like believing in it. I don’t want to look up whether you can or not, because I suspect you can’t, but I like to believe that when I’m in line at McDonald's buying my fries and milkshake I will simply keel over and die. Seriously, I really want some McDonalds.
   I am in a pretty good mood, good enough to put little gluttonous plot twists on the ends of my morbid wonderings. I don’t even think dad could ruin my mood at this point, though I am probably sorely mistaken.
   And I’m pretty excited about tonight. There’s nothing new going on, I just really look forward to the time of day when I listen to the late-night lo-fi hip hop and chill in the pitch dark. Most of the time, it's the only thing I have to look forward to.
   Okay, so in The Fault In Our Stars, Hazel talks about how, a lot of times, she’ll get off easy for something because she has cancer. It’s because of pity, and how life-threatening it is, and blah blah blah. Sometimes, and I find this pretty funny (but it doesn’t work with my dad, big surprise there) my Mom will, like, be extra nice or help me out with buying something after a therapy session. Or when I’m having a low moment. I call these Depression Perks because I know my Mom feels super bad about how she cursed me with de-press-ion (dun dun dun) and how I’m like suicidal and all that. Anyway, I guess I’m just greedy, but I kind of like these little Depression Perks, because I really am cursed with de-press-ion and it totally *****. Haha.

Love,



Hoolin Occupation