18 - Falling Apart

My father is a peculiar person. Not too friendly, and not too shy, he is the epitome of the working man. His rugged beard and East Asian culture never stopped him rebuking a stranger to defend his integrity. His accented English would always ring through my head as it was he who  told me to dream big and to dream loud, for if something is impossible, it is all the more fun to achieve it.

Our relationship can only be described as the father-daughter love so keenly dissected apart on TV shows. He was my hero, flaws and all.  I was his little girl no matter how old I was. I am -- no, I was -- cherished, respected, and above all, loved. And like all relationships, ours fell apart.

It was subtle and came with a bang. His words and actions that was spoken to me meant nothing because of his one action at that one time. It shattered everything I held dear.

Now, conversations are used with only the necessary words, and eye contact is non-existence. I haven't seen Father in 2 months.

He's coming for Christmas, and I'm really starting to hate the apprehension and fragility.


  1. I can relate to this. When I was younger, my dad was my hero. My mother peaced out before I could walk and he raised my brother and me. I worshipped him. Now, we stick to surface streets. The thought of him telling me he loves me makes me feel ill. How does this happen.

    1. I don't know.
      I just stood there and watched everything happen, and did nothing to stop it.