The Father who Changed

Dear best childhood friend and father,
     I recall a time when we were best friends. Inseparable. You took me everywhere with you. We did everything together. You played barbie with me, would listen to the songs I made up on guitar, and even listen to me sing the same song over and over again. I vowed to you that we would never split. And as the years went on and I aged, that I would grow even closer to you. I swore that we would never fight, that I would be perfect for you, and that you would always love me. That I would alway shave a special place in your heart.
     But as time went by, and I grew, we changed. We believe in two very different things. And you won't even accept that there is a possibility of me being right. Every tiny mistake, every slip up, is like me spitting in your face. Apology after apology, my "sorry" no longer makes you think that it is okay. Isn't it you that said growing up is about making mistakes? Didn't you tell me I didn't have to be perfect, that you didn't expect it from me?
     Then why. Why do you tell me all of these things, like "waste of a child," and "a burden." You tell me not to come home, that you are ashamed of me. Some of your exact words to me are "you sit on your butt all day, growing fatter by the second. Why can't you go and play some sport like a normal girl?"
It hurts. Everyday, it hurts. But I hide it and pretend I am happy. I tell people little about you, because I hope that maybe you will call me and say you are so sorry. But it never happens. Instead, you call me to say you are dissapointed in my 3.5 GPA.
     I thought it was normal. For parents to hate their teenagers. But when I heard from other people what their parents do that hurts their feelings, I realize I have it rougher. Of course, I don't try and outdo other people. But their parents don't scream at their children, talk down to them, don't ground them for talking to boys, they don't hit or throw things at them or even threaten to, occasionally.
     I keep most of the things that happen in our household confidential. Because I don't want to bring up those memories, or get help. These are my problems. I can deal with them. I am strong enough. Or so I hope.
     Am I not your kin? Your own child, by blood? Please, just tell me once that you love me, and mean it. Just once, like you used to. Just one more time, tuck me in and sing a lullaby to me. Just once, trust me when I say I tried.
     Maybe I you will love me again if I leave you. Maybe my absence will make you realize that you do care. Maybe. So maybe, I could try.
     For any of those who have read this (if any), sorry for the length.
Sincerely, your daughter.