I understand your hatred for your father, Vanessa; you've definitely earned that hate. But if you hang on to it, that hatred will eat you up, and your father will still be controlling you.

Years ago, I was in the same place you are right now. I decided that I was going to write a letter to my father. I had every intention of sending it to him; my father was/is still alive.
In that letter, I wrote every hateful thing I ever wanted to say to him. I called him every name I could think of. I told him he wasn't a man, he was a mouse, what I knew would upset him the most. I told him he was everything I hated in a man. I let myself go crazy with anger. Yes, I was alone in my house that day. As I wrote, the pen dug further and further into the pad of paper. It tore in many places. But I kept writing. I must have written "I HATE YOU I HATE YOU" a hundred times. By the time I was done writing, I couldn't open my hand. I was crying so hard, I thought I'd never stop.

Then I read what I wrote out loud. And then I read it again. And again. And again. The tears kept flowing; I was heaving with gut-wrenching sobs. My voice kept rising every time I re-read it. Then my voice turned into a barely audible screech, but I kept reading on.
Then the heaving sobs were replaced with a profound sadness, a sadness that I later came to recognize as grief. I realized that I would never have the father that I wanted. He was who he was, and he did what he did; there was nothing I could possibly do to change any of it. The only thing I could change was the way I looked at him, the way I looked at what he had done.

Then that sadness was replaced with a strange sense of tranquility, of release. I sat down in the easy chair in my family room, completely drained. I really don't know how long I was there, but when I got up, I decided I didn't have to send that letter. I didn't hate him anymore. I didn't feel love, but I didn't hate him. Oddly enough, I felt sorry for him. Not because he was a product of his own upbringing . . . no . . . I felt sorry for him because his actions cost him my respect. His actions cost him a relationship with his first-born, the first-born he was so proud to bring into this world.

I picked up the letter I'd written, found a book of matches in my candle drawer, then went looking for the metal garbage can in the garage. I then ceremoniously set that letter ablaze.
"I don't hate you anymore, Dad," I said. "I don't love you, but I don't hate you." I hadn't rehearsed those words; they just softly rolled off my lips.

Vanessa, what I did that day was one of the most freeing acts I ever did for myself. I've done others, but that one was among the most liberating. The catharsis was truly life-altering. I don't know if you can find release the way I did, but I thought I'd share it with you, a fellow journal writer. I thought I'd share it with someone who has earned a healthy dose of healing.