I don't have a dad. I mean, I have a man who I call my dad but he’s not “my dad”. Growing up, I thought it was normal to be scared of talking to your dad, just like how it’s normal to not like school or hate eating vegetables, it was just an unspoken truth to every child. I was six when my mom first wanted to get divorced. After eight years of marriage, she’d finally called it quits but my dad begged for her to stay, so she did. Way too many more years of yelling and laughing and tears crying went by. Pounds and pounds of weight kept being thrown at me and I was quickly growing tired. A memory I frequently reflect back on happened in the sixth grade. I walked into my first period and the weight of what was happening in my life surrounded me. My dad had clearly been cheating on my mom and I couldn’t handle the bitterness that would radiate off of his alcohol-stained breath whenever he tried to defend himself so I spent the entire day crying. I was walking to one of my classes when these two girls behind me were talking about how sensitive and weird I was. I still see them in the halls sometimes and I wonder if they remember that day. A year later, my parents officially split. By that point, I’d finally given up on finding the good in him. I finally saw him for who he was and how he treated the people around him. I had already caught him watching a porno with his secretary, sending her cute texts with way too many heart emojis, giving her quick kisses. The guilt of not being enough of a reason for him to stop gnawed holes in my heart. I would cry to my friends, to my journal, to my own mother, but no one had an answer for what to do. I tried therapy and went on medications but nothing changed. I was doing everything in my power to fix how my dad had destroyed my mental health when the easiest way for me to get better was if he just stopped being in my life. My dad never really understood why I was depressed or rather “had an attitude”— he doesn’t believe in mental illness— but he continued to grow more bitter the older and more independent I got. Emma stop playing the victim, no Emma you can’t leave the house, Emma you’re a brat. I started keeping a list of every horrible thing he ever did because I would constantly block it out and would forget how horrible he was. Every day, I would wake up forgiving him and go to bed with tear-stained pillows. We haven’t talked in a month but he’s still always there, taunting me from his high horse. That’s the thing about having a biological dad; Physically, mentally, emotionally, you can never fully get rid of him. My eyes are his, my hair is his, and my body is his. When I came out as bisexual, he told me I didn’t know what I was talking about, that I was too young to know anything. When I told him I had a boyfriend, he told me I was too young to be “sneaking around”. When I told him I wanted to be treated like an adult, he said I was too young to know what that even means.  It’s always been that I’m too young, so why did you force me to act like an adult my entire life?