I have been writing and rewriting words, attempting to make a sentence that accurately depicts the state I’m in. The best way to put it is both unforgiving and graphic:

On a steel table in a sterile room, an incision has been made and it is one that will change your world forever. Along the sides of the scalpel, blood has created a river flowing across a tan colored plane. The scalpel penetrates skin and muscle, peeling away the layers until there’s only the bright, pulpy mass of a human’s inner workings. With the retractors in place, the pericardium is stripped away and the heart is now on full display. A hand reaches in and lets the redness infiltrate its bright white gloves. The hand clasps around the most pertinent organ of all and swiftly yanks it from the chest cavity. With a hiss, blood spurts across the once sterile environment, it is brutal and unclean. The hand clenching the heart is steady and sure, the decision has already been made. The heart is thrown down to floor. Machines are beeping, the staff is screaming, scrambling to do something, anything to save this dying body. The surgeon strips the bloody gloves from his hands and exits the frenetic scene, leaving the heart to fade.

Dramatic? Yes. Accurate? Absolutely. I’m now settling into the numbness that inevitably comes once your heart has been torn away by someone you love. Who was the surgeon? My father–after all, he is a doctor. However, I cannot place full blame on my father for the state I find myself in. It’s true, there are other contributing factors to the way I feel, but none are as easy to pinpoint as my father’s actions, or lack thereof.

I haven’t spoken to him in—a month, I supppose? It seems it’s been that long since the most recent family dinner in September. I know that Monday through Friday he works in Atlanta, and he’s a very busy man, I’m sure. I’m also sure that any number of times, he could have flipped open his phone, pressed the speed-dial button for my cell phone and called me up, just to say hello, and that he was thinking of me. I haven’t received any contact from him aside from two text messages about my schoolwork (he only knew about my schoolwork because the school periodically sends him emails), and a phone call to speak to my mother about some insurance paperwork.

Not having contact with him was enough to make me a little bummed, especially when I know he has spoken to the rest of my family. He and my sister went out for pizza last night, then they went to a tattoo appointment together. The kicker–the thing that absolutely burns me to the core–is that my mother called him that evening to tell him some exciting news. I was published in MY THIRD BOOK, and it was related to something that my father and I both share a passion for, photography. He has yet to call me to congratulate me. When my mom found out she was squealing, and she bragged to random strangers at the book release party (I was unable to attend because of previous engagements) about her seventeen year old having a photo published in her THIRD book in ONE year. My dad? He told my sister that it was awesome that I got into the book. No direct contact whatsoever. Oh, and he left town today (without telling me) to go on a cruise, albeit work related, missing his eldest child’s birthday dinner. I know he’s not attending this cruise alone, I remember seeing the paperwork for an additional guest when I took care of him after his spine surgery.

I should have expected this, after all, my father’s *good* behavior after the initial breakup couldn’t last forever, could it? Of course not, he’s a man that will never change. So, right now, I am saying it aloud. I am done. I will no longer call when I miss him, I will no longer invite him to dinner and a movie. I will no longer make the effort I have made for years and years to be a “good” daughter

The ball is in your court, Dad. Be a parent to me, or lose the relationship you have with your youngest daughter altogether.