Growing Up and Moving On

Hurts

It just hit me today. I don't know my dad. I mean, I know him, but I don't really. I rarely see him. It's not all his fault. If I'm not working on the weekends when he's home, I'm gone. And, at night, Mom and Dad are busy running Michael around, and don't get home until like 8:30, and then Dad goes straight to bed because he gets up at like 4:00.

This sucks. I realized this because I was thinking about last night. How I had a drink. I don't think he'd care, but it'd still be nice to talk to him about stuff sometimes. Mom's kind of overprotective when it comes to that stuff, so I don't really want to talk to her about it. I'm feeling just a tiny bit guilty that I drove after having that Martini. That's not even the point, though; it just triggered it.

I want to be able to have good, intellectual talks with my daddy. I miss him. I want to talk to him and listen to his college stories. I want to joke with him and see myself in his humour. I want to be listened to. And now, what do we have left? This summer. The summer we'll spend busily and frantically rushing around, from one activity to the next.

What is life all about anyway? Relationships, right? So, where did I go wrong? I'm probably just being melo-dramatic, like I usually am. But, I just want to go back to when I was a little girl. And just cry. I never cry. I can't even cry now. Is it because I'm so calloused that the tears won't come? Or is it because I know tears are useless and my childhood is over?

It hit me last night that I'm not so young anymore. As I sat there drinking and joking with all the 20-some year olds, I felt old. It was a good feeling; one of accomplishment, movement and change. But, it's hard to realize it in just one night. To realize this is to realize I finally have to leave part of myself behind. And, for some reason, to realize this hurts.

~Sarah

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I was listening to the sermon on Sunday (for a change). The preacher was talking about his kids and telling stories about when they were younger. He told of a time when his son touched the stove and got burned, it was an analogy to portray the fact that rules are put there to protect us, not hinder us. I cryed. My dad doesn't even remember my childhood; he remembers what he was doing while were left home alone. I wept for the person he could have been.

I cryed because God made dad's to represent Himself, and my perception of Him is sometimes distorted because of this. I'm like you, I want my dad to want to talk to me, but he doesn't, and there's nothing I can do. For now, I'll take the meaningless, "So, how's the car running?" chats.

I'm feeling you on growing up too fast. I turn 20 this year, and that, too, makes me wanna cry.

Trinitie

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Thanks, Trin. I think most people, especially girls, tend to have issues with their fathers. ::sigh:: Life sucks sometimes.

~Sarah

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