An Open Love Letter to Dad

Dear Dad,

It's another school night, and I'm supposed to be doing Stats homework - but I thought I'd break into the Doritos I found under the bed, kick off my socks and spread out on the futon to write you a little something to let you know I'm still alive.

Dad, it's funny the way the Universe works, isn't it? Just as soon as I have everyone convinced I'm ready to careen off the nearest cliff yelling, "Fuck it, Texas, here I come!" I find myself faced with a much smaller decision - Spend Labor Day in Madison and party all weekend, or hit up the homestead and face the music.

Natch, I went home, because it's been a good long time since I've seen my parents at eye-level. This was the first weekend I'd been home in the entirety of my post-college career whereupon I was finally respected as an adult. Boy, it's awfully nice to come home and feel heard. While I could appreciate that the independent identity I'd nurtured in Madison had FINALLY merged with my parents perception of me, I still couldn't quite stomach the idea of living there.

See, I was faced with one of those wild evenings that happens once in a blue moon - I arrived at the deepest dive bar in town (Dad, I'm not joking - I stood next to this tiny little underage asian girl who SPIT IN THE BARTENDER'S FACE, UNPROVOKED, TWICE IN A ROW. It ruled super fucking hard.) and was confronted by a slew of my high school friends. It sure was nice, but in a weird way - I just felt my life moving, as a train barreling through the night, in a wholly different direction. One in which Rochester dive bars, or Rochester in general, are nothing more than a brief reprieve from the rolling punches of every day existence.

I finally felt confident in my decision to keep moving. I finally settled on it. No more "We'll wait and sees..."

I'd rather just move and be.
I don't feel like I'm going to have to fall back on anyone for basic life support/ I've been there, and it's not how it's done.
I also felt confident in my decision to solely pursue my own dreams - I've made several mistakes in my path - I've had to turn around and go back once or twice. But the only times I've ever had to go back were simply because I'd forgotten my dreams, and lost myself in someone elses.

It's like God, right? For a long time, I rolled my eyes - I prayed, but could only hear the dull echo of my own pleas resounding in my skull. All these people who swore they'd been heard, and had help - I wanted to fall on my knees and ask them, "How do you trust that He hears you?"

And they'd come up with some answer, and for as pretty or as meaningful as it might've sounded, it didn't nestle into the empty portion of my soul. I kept plodding through blindly, crossing my fingers and crossing my eyes and hoping someday, I'd feel the cool enlightenment of being heard.

But it occurred to me, even if I asked the Pope himself if God could hear me, and he insisted "Yes, yes he can," I'd still doubt it. I'd never believe it, because the greatest faith is that which comes from inside.

Faith in anything - Belief in the self.
I needed to trust me, before I could even begin to trust in anything else.

And with that comes the recognition that my dreams are worth it.
And that understanding alone makes my life worth living.
And I'm only going to be satisfied pursuing my dreams.
I don't want to live in someone elses story -
I want to write my own.

I love you, Dad.

Thank you for understanding me in such a unique way.

--by SleepUnwisely, Mars. Or wisconsin. Whichever., 09/08/2009