This has something that has been on my mind for a long while, and I hope I can express this properly.

My father was a 6'4 ex-marine. From what I know of him (thanks to my grandmother) he was drafted into Operation Desert Storm at some point. Upon his return, he suffered from PTSD and the people he worked for weren't willing to provide him with therapy. For a long while his trauma when unchecked, and I believe it led him down a dark path.

He allegedly stole a tank, has been to prison at least once, and was involved in Operation Longfuse (gun smuggling). He had extreme paranoia and was quick to anger. He had a therapist for a while, and about two months into dating my mother his therapist suggested they get married.

Me and my sister were born (as well as an older half brother from his previous marriage, but I don't know a lot about that) and in my memories he was perfect as he could be.

His favorite show was the Simpsons, so me and my mother bought him Simsons candy canes for Christmas. He taught me how to play baseball which was his favorite sport. He rescued me when I was attacked by a dog when I was 2. He stood up for me when I was getting bullied at my preschool (who tried to hide it from my parents). He would fix me and him a bowl of Rice Krispies with a spoonful of sugar every Saturday morning and we would eat together. He would fix me grilled corn with salt because he knew it was my favorite. I would sit on his lap and watch him play his shooter games on the box computer. I would help him shovel our driveway when it snowed. Everyday after daycare I would run to him and tell him every exhausting detail of my day. He would pick me up after daycare sometimes and bring me with him to his work as a carpenter. He taught me how to swing by myself, and rescue me from stray bees.

But he's also ignored me and my mothers cry for help when we both fell down the stairs. He said I would be okay when I cut my eyelid open, saying I didn't need a hospital. He proudly showed me a deer he was in the process of gutting when I was 4. He got into shouting matches with my 16 year old half-sister (mothers side) over chores. He got into legal trouble with some local parents over him asking my said older sister's friends if they were having sex (though I personally believe this was just a case of miscommunication, he wasn't very bright).

When I was 5 years old, the local police and FBI entered our home to find my father, who held a gun to his head, telling them he was not going back to jail. He was shot 7 times, one believed to be self-inflicted. His computer was seized where child pornography was found.

I did not know he was dead until I was about 7, two years later. I did not know why he died until I was 15, after looking up his death certificate online (I knew he had done bad things, I just never knew what specifically). I did not know of his life before me until I was 17.

Even knowing all of these horrible things he did, and knowing there's probably even more horrendous things he's done I don't know about....

...I still love him more than anyone else in the world, and it feels terrible.

He died when I was 5 about to turn 6. I am currently 19 about to turn 20. I have not been to my home state where we lived in over 14 years. I still love him.

I want to name my future child after him. I want to keep my last name if I marry for him. I visit his grave and cry for him more than my sister and my mother do. I love him more than I love my mother, who has raised me this whole time. My younger sister doesn't acknowledge him, and if she does it's in pure disgust. And she has every right to feel that way.

I should feel that way. But I don't.

I still love him.
I still love him.
I still love him after all this time, after all he's done.
I still love him.

[I hope this came off the way I intended it to, it's something I feel most conflicted about in my life currently.]