An Open Letter That You Don't Have To Read.

Father.
I don't know if you have realised this, but I haven't called you 'Dad' for over a year now.
I also am a bit late in telling you pretty much everything that's going on in my life.
Well, here's the catchup.
I was diagnosed with clinical depression at the end of year nine. Two years ago, almost to the day. For six months before that, the longest I went without crying myself to sleep was three days. So I'd quite appreciate you not telling me that I don't know what depression is, that I don't know what it's like to not want to get out of bed in the morning and face the day. I do, more than any teenager really should, but I suppose there's a lot of us about now.
Today you told me that I'd become introverted in my teenage years. Why you notice things that aren't true- I've stood up to a you a damnsite more in the last six months than ever before- and you can't notice things like how I haven't felt any love for you for the past few years astounds me. How can one man be so oblivious to what he doesn't want to see?
You're constantly putting me and my gender down, telling me that I'm not strong enough physically or emotionally because I'm a female, telling me that being good at English is impractical and doesn't make me smart, and that I should be good at maths, telling me that I'll never be a lawyer, I'm not intelligent enough, an actress because I'm not good enough and I don't have the right connections. I already know I'm no good, but that doesn't mean I can't dream.
Dreams can be good for a person you know. It gives them hope.
Thanks for crushing mine.

And then you tell me that I'm not confident enough to succeed? Ever think that maybe, just maybe, you could have played a part in it? I used to be an optimistic, happy person. The only way to survive around you is at least temporarily convert to a cynical realist. Or a pessimist, if that's what you'd like to call it.

My change wasn't temporary.

Now, I don't actually believe there is much good in the world. Let alone good that can happen to me.
At the moment, I should be having what is the best time of my life. I am, really. But something is stopping me from enjoying it to its fullest. I'm constantly doubting myself and the people around me. I almost suspect a Truman Show-esque elaborate scheme, set up merely to fool me and provide entertainment to others.
What's a lie anymore?
I've become so filled with conspiracies that I don't know if I am one myself.
Fuck me, I just sound paranoid. But it's true.

It's not your fault.
It's my fault, it's the way I've adapted. Not just to you, to everything that's happened to me.
Doesn't mean I enjoy it.
Jus' sayin'.