I'm going to be blunt. My father is an asshole. That is the best way to put it. He can just look at you and you can feel his asshole energy radiate from across the room. You can hear in the way he walks how angry he is, and you will eventually learn how to walk quietly. He is also sensitive, surprising considering he bullies children when they are sensitive, but he is sensitive. He gets hurt when you don't bring back a perfect grade or if you do something incorrectly. His face will go red and he will start screaming, his mouth wide open and you can see the spit fly across the room as he gets into your face. You can see the world in a different manner when he grabs you by the hair and throws you across the room. He will tell you that he is sorry and that he didn't mean his cruel words. Cruel words like bitch, slut, or hooker. He is also blunt. He will tell you to your face if he thinks you are stupid, but he is now better at hiding it. He looked at me with narrow eyes when I told him what I wanted to major in. I told him so many things. First, it was English and that was a no-go and then it was teaching. Both of these majors meant that I would become a hooker of some kind. I would have to sell my half-white body on the streets to make ends meet. I wonder how much I am worth? It must not be much because my dad would also tell me that I needed to get a boob job or I was getting too fat. I was a greasy slice of Little Caesars Pizza in his eyes. I would look in the mirror and only see some ugly creature. I'm not worth much... I wouldn't make a good hooker; the customers would be disappointed. Let me tell you a secret. I lied to him. I lied to my own father. I told him the reason why I was going so far away from home for school was that it was a good school. The college I go to is amazing, but I went here because he couldn't leave the county and this was the furthest I could get. It's ironic though. I found a support system and a major that I love. It is a major he doesn't approve of, but I don't care anymore. So, how has my dad shaped my career aspirations? I reflect on this once a month at 3 am with tears in my eyes. I will promise myself to tell my therapist what happened. She told me I probably have CPTSD. It's not official, but I plan to get checked for that. That's not the answer you are looking for. You want the happy stories. But that is not what you will get from me. My father gave me plenty of stories to write about. My future career is being a writer and teacher. Despite what my father says I won't be a fucking hooker.

"You're going to end up as a hooker." The words stung into my body like shards of glass cutting against my skin, and I could smell the rotten stench from my father's mouth as he said those words. Writing, my passion, was going to lead me to sell my body for money. My brain couldn't take the stenchful words. I was depressed. My father isn't a nice person, he is a bully and seemed to have a hobby of verbally abusing me. I didn't know it was abuse at the time until I went to college and had time to self-evaluate. I was struggling mentally and with making the choice of where I want my life to go. In one ear I kept hearing to major in STEM and make money, but the other ear told me to follow my dreams. It was like two angels arguing in my ears, none listening to the either. Neither cared about how the other felt because one was going to win even if it meant killing the other. I struggled between the two trying to comfort them both, but their goals were so different that there was no way to make both happy. I wasn't happy. I knew what my goals were. I knew that I wanted to get a master's degree and eventually a PhD. I wanted to teach. I wanted to teach to college students, so I didn't care what I majored in. That's a lie though. I did care, but I was worried about the earfuls I would get. The judgment. I was scared of everything all at once and this unbearable pressure fell onto my shoulders and I had to cry. I would just cry in my dorm room bed, but what stopped my tears was writing. I loved the prospect of writing for class work. My English Literature class was my favorite and I secretly dreamed of teaching English. I then realized something, an awareness per say I realized that I wanted to teach. I mainly wanted to teach college composition and decided to let go of my fears. Writing, for me, is a way to process my emotions and thoughts. It gives me time to reflect on my past and my future. It has allowed me to move on and learn from my past. Writing is my way of life and my future career. I want to teach writing and help students see the importance of writing. Writing is a skill needed by everyone. My pieces are there to shed light on issues whether it be LGBTQ+ or my own traumas. It is there to help people process and think.