[SCENE]

(A young woman, early 20's, sitting on the edge of her bed and on the brink of tears. She feels she has no sense of direction. Ironically, it's in these moments that she calls the most unlikely character.)

Him: "Boo-boo, out of all my children, you're the most like me."

Me: (stunned)

[END SCENE]

What was probably one of the proudest moments of his life, was one of the scariest of mine. To me, it confirmed my doubts and fears. Instead of seeing the good in my father, I focused on the bad.

Alexander Sharp begat Chester Sharp, who begat Chester, who begat Chester, who begat Chester Theodore, Cheryl, and Carroll. Carroll begat Alex, Justin, Richard, Sean, and me.

Carroll Alexander Sharp. C. Alexander Sharp. Alex. My daddy.

Anyone who knows me is familiar with the contentious relationship I have with my father. Well apparently, it wasn't always that way. Legend says that, until 4-5ish, I was quite the daddy's girl. In fact, one of my favorite pictures is when Momma left me in his care for the day. I couldn't have been older than 18 months, sitting at the table with my snack cake (I was a very fat baby) all over the table, my clothes and face. Daddy was sitting at the head of the table, and I don't know if he said something funny or I did, but we were both happy--and it showed. At night, I would sneak downstairs to watch tv with him because I (still do) woke up in the middle of the night. I still can't watch M*A*S*H because Daddy would turn it on to make me go back to sleep.

My resentment runs deep.

I was about 5 when I found out about my father's addiction. In the early 90's, kids would oftentimes call one another a "crackhead" where a "silly" "stupid" or "crazy" would suffice. (Remember, this was the early 1990's: a time that wasn't as politically correct as 2017) Sean and I were bickering about something, I can't rememeber what, when one of us called the other a crackhead. Momma heard, and promptly corrected us.

"Do you know what you're saying?" "You know your father's 'on crack', right?"

From that day forward, I was sensitive towards crack jokes. You see, I knew that before we moved to my granny's house that Momma had to start hiding our more expensive toys in the trunk, or at granny's house. I also know that it felt like one day we lived in one house and then, the next thing I knew, we lived in another. But I was 4-5. I wouldn't understand until I was much older, that what my mother was really leaving was a toxic situation for all involved--including, but not limited to, my father.

Anyway, once I realized what was really going on, I lost all faith and trust in Daddy. The laughter, sugar toast, stories and pickles I shared with him were quickly replaced with deception, distrust, lies and anger.

I began to resent him. Especially after I learned that he could've been a musician and we could've lived in LA. I didn't know then that the 80's LA music scene was his introduction to what tore our family apart.

For the next 13 or so years, our relationship went in and out. I'd go from talking to him every day, to not hearing from him for months. At one point, I remarked to my then-boyfriend, "I don't know whether my father is dead or alive." Begrudgingly, I invited him to my high-school graduation (undergrad soon followed). You see, I didn't feel like he had done anything to deserve to celebrate with me. Needless to say, I wasn't too disappointed when he showed up at my house that morning to tell me congratulations. I looked at it as another reason why I shouldn't have faith in him. My mother, however, knew better. She knew he backslid, and simply didn't want to embarrass me.

She could always see the good in him.

If you were to ask me now, I wouldn't be able to tell you how long my father has been clean. I know it has been at least 10 years, but since he was in and out, I can't pinpoint the exact date. All I knew was that, all of a sudden, he was taking care of himself. He seemed lighter--happier. We'd laugh more when we spoke.

But I was still holding onto that resentment...

I knew that of the 5 Sharp children, I was the most creative. Sure, Sean could draw (and draw his ass off), but I actually had a passion for arts. And that scared the hell out of me. Instead of chasing my dreams of acting, filmmaking, writing and production, I chose "safer" avenues like journalism. Something that allowed me to walk the circumference of my house, but not travel the whole yard. My father was my cautionary tale. The reasons of which, I won't understand without therapy, but he was. Art=addiction. It was simple. Like Lauryn's mother in "Sister Act 2", I believed that truly following my passion would lead to nothing but destruction.

So back to the original conversation.

It was 2010. I had just moved to the DC area, and could breathe--really breathe--for the first time ever. That pull towards something creative scared me, and I called the only person I believed would understand.

Then he confirmed my fears. I'm like him.

And then I spiraled.

Well, what does this mean? Will I end up on drugs? Will I forever chase an elusive high?

It took a day of processing before I realized that being like my father wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I mean, my mother, who's a pretty good judge of character, saw some good in him. And I had some good memories, didn't I?

My father is an artist. He's a musician. That's where he's happiest. He's only recently found an outlet for his creativity.

It's time I do the same.

Bringing us here. Over this last month, I've given myself permission. I refuse to play it safe, wasting years of my life wondering "what if?" I'm fully embracing my creative and not running away.

I will write.

I will produce.

I will create.

...and I will succeed. For him and me.