32 - Runaway

32

Runaway

T he sensation of being suffocated diminishes the further I get away from the city.

Behind me, Philadelphia fades away. Cool air creeps through the window, caressing my hot skin, and the loud music blares out all my thoughts. Aside from the one telling me to go.

Above, the highway signs point to the Delaware Beaches, a drive I could do in my sleep. We grew up going here in the summers and for special occasions in the off-season. When my parents were still together, they bought a second house nearby, and it became a reprieve for all of us. Now, I don't go nearly as much as I should. Back then, I used it as an escape. Just like I am now.

The three-hour drive passes quickly. While the suffocated feeling has faded, the pain in my chest hasn't. At the doctor's news. At my father.

I na?vely thought Isaiah leaving was the worst pain I had felt so far. Would be the worst to feel for a while.

But this…is equally as bad. In a different way, but the cracking of my heart aches the same; the pressure behind my eyes is one and the same. Sometimes, I think if I had quit before or after college, my and Dad's relationship wouldn't be quite as fragmented. That I could've found new dreams, something else to pursue. When I was twenty-two, I was so confident that I was getting selected that year. I had an incredible four years in school, three championships, and multiple awards. A breakout season in the professional league. I had done everything to the best of my ability.

It just wasn't enough.

Afterward, I understood there were other factors. The team at the time had a solid defense, a core group, and legendary players in the wing. Eventually, I got it, but for a few months, I thought about quitting more than I'd like to admit. Because if my best wasn't enough, what was?

I dig my free hand in my curls, my elbow on the window, ignoring the tears that won't stop slowly rolling down my face.

Because this—getting the invitation, getting selected, doing the thing I always dreamed of, and then getting injured—feels a million times worse. And it won't stop. The well keeps digging deeper in my chest, hollowing out every second, with every breath.

Logic is not winning the battle right now.

Because logically, I know that this isn't the end of the world. That there's still a chance I'd be back in time. Or get invited to a camp before the Olympics. But that's all so far away. That all feels so unattainable.

Because right now, I'm injured with a shit knee and no hope.

Soon, the cool air turns salty. The smell of the ocean gets closer by the second. I head down the main stretch until I turn left toward the boardwalk and the ocean. In the summers, the boardwalk is full of families, young and old. Weaving in and out of the shops along the avenue and heading to Funland, where all the carnival games and rides are. Usually, the salty air is mixed with the salty smell of boardwalk fries and long lines up to the famous ice cream shops. But right now, it's quiet. Small groups walk up and down the sidewalks, and some staple shops are open, while others are closed.

After parking, I walk until I reach the shore, slipping my shoes off until I can dig my toes into the cool sand. Pulling my sweatshirt closer, I walk past the tipped over lifeguard stands and find a spot just far enough back, the cold water won't touch me. The sun starts to lower in the sky, but it's still high enough to warm my cheeks against the breeze.

I let out a deep sigh.

All I ever wanted was for you to be great.

I am. I believed that. Believed that I was great at my sport, great at my position, great at what I did. But it doesn't seem to be enough for him. Because my father's perceived level of greatness is different.

For him, greatness means solidifying yourself in the sport. For him, greatness means being the best. Being the one to beat, the one that's talked about on ESPN long after retirement. As if women's soccer is talked about on ESPN at all if it's not a major tournament, but that's not the point. The point is, no one knows the kind of legacy they're going to leave while they're living it.

No athlete can predict what their efforts or accomplishments will mean for people to come.

So what if I don't meet my father's idea of greatness? What happens then? And that's what he doesn't get. If I'm not the ‘ best' , then what am I to him? A failure? Untapped potential? A player instead of a person? Instead of a daughter?

I get he wants the best for me, to be great, to do great, but what is the peak? What peak does he expect me to climb? Where does it fucking end? It's not measurable. It's not like he's given me a roadmap of accomplishments he wants me to do—so, what does he want from me?

What more can I do?

What more can I do?

I don't understand what he sees when he looks at me. Why isn't what he sees enough for him? He wants me to sacrifice everything in order to become something else? Well, why isn't what I am and who I am enough for him? Why is the person I have become and worked hard to become not great? What is it about me that my dad sees, as less than?

Maybe if he told me…I could fix it. Maybe I could mold myself into being the perfect version for him, and he could get what he wants. But wouldn't I lose everything else in the process? Everything that makes me who I am and worthy of the love and the friendship and the life I do have…wouldn't I lose that?

So, who wins? Do I bend to the point of breaking just to get my dad to look at me with pride for once? To tell me? Or do I stay here, stay who I'm supposed to be, and…hope he loves me anyway. And if he doesn't…

Because the way he loves me right now isn't enough. It isn't enough.

There was no comfort after my injury, after having the dream given to me and taken away. No calls to see how I was. No texts. No nothing. Nothing because he couldn't put his pride aside for me when I needed him. When I just needed my dad.

Once again, I wipe away tears with the back of my hand. Standing, I walk down to where the ocean meets the shore. The waves are quiet, gentle swells, but they splash gently against my skin as I move closer, salt on the breeze. Against my legs, the cold water makes me inhale sharply.

I'm his daughter. His kid. He's supposed to love me when he hates me. He's supposed to do so much more than I accept. He's supposed to believe in me when he's disappointed, when I've made mistakes, when I'm less than perfect. But instead, when I fall short, I don't feel like anything but gum on the bottom of his shoe. It doesn't make sense to me.

And the reality is, all I asked was if he was proud of who I was…not who I could be, and he said nothing. He let me leave. And then proceeded to dig the knife in deeper. As if I wasn't struggling under the weight of my own expectations, as if I wasn't falling apart at the seams.

This relationship is circling the drain, and I've tried. I've been the one to fix it in the past, to apologize, to beg for him to forgive me, to let it go. I can't this time. I won't.

But wondering if I'm good enough for my dad is going to break me if I let it. And I can't. I can't live my life trying to meet some conditions that I shouldn't have to. No one else has them for me. No one else expects me to be something I'm not when choosing to love me.

If Dad doesn't want to like me, to love me—fine.

I guess I'll just have to learn to live with that.