by Jamora Rogers

Created on: July 05, 2010

Like Father, Like Himself

Where we come from, whom we grow up around and the things that are so vivid for us to remember have a great impact on the way we are or someday become. My father was a M.I.A, missing in action, kind of person in my entire life. I use to sit and think of him as being a fun, loving and smart man that was too far away to see me. I wish I could still think of him this way, because he is the cause of my depression. 

Through out my whole life, my father was never physically or mentally there for me. My mother left with me in her arms and away from him when I was a baby. When I was able to read and write, I kept in touch with the man, known as my father, through letters. On good years the birthday cards would come, but others they didn't. I thought it was something I had done. I thought he didn't love me. He didn't know me. At those young years of my life I loved this father I didn't really know. I would dream of living with him, how I would be if he had raised me and just thought the world of him. I collected his pictures and newspaper clipping and kept them safe from damaging in my Mickey Mouse tin can. I had admired him. 

My teenage years came all too soon, and I didn't know my surroundings or myself like a regular high school girl. Those letters from my father soon faded. I would write him and not get a reply until two months later. If he loved his child, I assumed he would have written back a lot sooner. Phone calls became rushed and interrupted by an attention needed little cousin. My father cared more for him then me and I soon grew the need to absorb the attention from boys. I had a cycle. I had a boyfriend, I grew tired of him and had another lined up. I was scared of them leaving me or disappointing me, like my father, so I broke up with them. Eleventh grade I was raped, I was destroyed, but I lied to myself to keep sane. I was disappointed in my father. He never showed up at my graduation. He became a liar in my eyes. 

Through my first year of college my father told me I had an older sister. I was jumping for joy to know I would not be an only child anymore. I wrote her letters, but she never wrote back. There my father was toying with my emotions, knowing I wanted a sibling and made one up to torture me. After an attempted rape on campus my heart turned black and sour, hard and evil, dry and angry. I hated him and wanted nothing to do with him. I wished that a hidden camera show would pop out of my dorm closet

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