Leave. Roll the word around on your tongue for a bit.

The same thoughts have been treading my brain for what seems like months. I think that's why I've hated writing to such an extent for a while...When I think too much for too long about the same things concerning myself I start hating all of it. Everything. Just like how all of this will sound rotten in the morning.

I miss my dad a lot. Really, a lot. Sometimes I wonder why he stopped trying..and I wonder why I stopped trying too. But I guess neither of us ever really tried at all; our relationship is effortless. I went to his house on weekends because I had to, I was supposed to. I hated that rule. Now I just wish he would acknowledge the last seven months that it still legally exists. I haven't spent the night at his house in about two years..maybe longer. I can't remember anymore. You know it's bad when going a few blocks up the street to see your family for ten minutes is awkward and makes you feel extremely uncomfortable.

I finished To Own a Dragon tonight..."Reflections on growing up without a father". As I finished it I started to wonder whether growing up without some sort of father figure could be worse than having one that forgot you live a couple houses down the street. I know I'm just being overly emotional because it's two-thirty in the morning and I just finished my last Donald Miller book, but oh..I miss him so much.

I can't stop staring at the cover of the book and thinking of his scruffy face and mustache, and how no matter what razor he used on his face stubble never ceased to remain on his chin and cheeks. I remember, when we lived in Orlando, he would close and tighten his lips and puff up his cheeks as much as possible, and my hands were so little that I could slap them as hard as I could to release the air and it wouldn't even phase him..just make him laugh..and there's something emphatically comforting about his scratchy face, and I remember the way it feels. That weird kind of nostalgia comfort..The same way everyone loves hugs and being held because almost all of us spent the first three years of our lives (and then some) being held by someone who loved us like we loved them.

Equally as much as I miss him, I harbor bitterness in my head towards him every day..and try to reassure myself whenever I start feeling guilty about it; telling myself he should know, as my father, that I'm a vulnerable girl and am much too weak to hold the weight of a father-daughter relationship singlehandedly. Some days I hate him for never daring to go past small talk. He has never been exertive in the slightest when it comes to getting to know me, so when he tries to make me feel guilty, tries to tell me I never want to see him and that's why I'm never around, I just want to explode. Not once, for the seventeen years I've been around, have you genuinely known a thought in my head, dad. I'm not really sure what it is that I miss.