Father's Day Joy

I woke up. Morning already? I groped for my big, comfy, bright pink blanket, but it was nowhere to be found. I slowly lifted my head up and scanned my room. There it was, resting lazily in a big pile. I stared at it with profound confusion, mostly due to the fact that I was still half asleep. I decided to just leave my blanket where it was and groggily, I checked my phone. 12:57 pm, 6/20/10. Oh jeez. Father’s day. Ha, Father’s day. More like remind the divorced kids that their parents are divorced day. Or worse, to remind all the non-divorced kids and the rest of the world that some kids don’t have a daddy, so we should pity them mercilessly. How wonderful. I texted all my friends to wish their father’s a happy father’s day. Immediately, my friends texted me back, a bunch of ‘thank you” ‘s showered with smiley faces. Huh. So the pity begins already. Poor, fatherless Rima, her dad was an alcoholic who had physical fights with his family all the time and her parents divorced when she was nine. Her mother remarried again, only to find out that her new husband was only interested in her money (which they really must not have much of, I mean look at their apartment!) So they look at me, all misty eyed, sensing all these imaginary emotions that I, the poor girl who grew up in a broken home, supposedly have: sadness, wistfulness, depression, trouble “that I need to vent out to a professional” and too many more to count. And it isn’t just from my friends, it’s from all the adults and my family, too. My “story” seems so heart wrenchingly sad but beautiful because of my strength, courage, and that I still manage to do well in school despite my “trouble”! I hate how it seems like such a “story” to the bored old folks of this town and their sheltered children: my “story” is baby poo compared to the things that so many millions of people have endured in our world: war, disease, poverty. I rolled out of bed and into my bathroom. I mean, even my family. They always act so different when we’re talking about fathers and my life. They get all quiet, and say things slowly, quietly, thinking that they’re touching a soft spot in my heart, a sensitive area that has DO NOT ENTER tape wrapped all over it. I took my contact lens case and put my right contact onto my finger. I squeezed the bottle of solution onto it. Contrary to what anyone, ANYONE might say, my parents’ divorce and my mom’s second divorce don’t affect me. I don’t sit around at night on my bed, staring at the moon, my eyes welling up with tears, wishing things were different and my life had been just like all my other friends. Okay, I admit, I have done that, just…minus all the “staring at the moon, eyes welling up with tears” bull. Honestly, suck it up! I squeezed out the last of my contact solution, rubbed it and put it in my eye. I mean, if people ask me about him, it’s not like I shy away, all sad and depressed, and say that it’s none of their business. I’m open with them. Yeah, you want to know? I’ll tell you. I don’t have a problem with that. I’m sorry if you expected me to. Crap, there really IS nothing left in this bottle. I left the bathroom to search for more contact solution in my closet. Don’t ask why, I don’t have the slightest clue why I’m searching in the closet, but hey, you have to start somewhere. Anyway, I’m not the least bit sensitive about the topic of my father. At least, I don’t think I am. And if I was, you would never know. It doesn’t matter if I’m a nobody, my pride will still conquer all. I wonder if I could ever fully open up. I’m not sure. It may be against my beliefs. My belief of being nonchalant, neutral. Or, I could even feel vulnerable to others. To the entire world. After ten minutes of careful searching, I walked back to the bathroom, a bit discouraged. Guess the closet wasn’t the best place to search after all. I popped in my other contact, walked to the kitchen, sat down and opened up today’s Chicago Tribune. Vulnerability, I thought. How revolting.





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