Daddy's Issues

Fathers, Foundations and Alanis Morissette

I have a mental list of men who have wronged me, starting in elementary school. I feel seen by Alanis Morissette. I have big emotional tides, a tendency to want to please, and many unsettling memories about my adolescence.

There is a song by Alanis that I return to again and again, and it feels like an ode to women with complicated relationships with men and how they determine their own worth. In which she says,

And somewhere along the way I think
I gave you the power to make
Me feel the way I thought
Only my father could, and

Oh, these little rejections
How they seem so real to me

In the midst of my quest to regain my sparkle, I’ve been faced with some growing pains. Some things I thought I’d healed, but have returned to me in a different package, as though to say, “Are you sure you’ve resolved this? Are you certain you’ve moved on?” I find myself molting, and in the dark gooey phase of the chrysalis once again.

My favorite self deprecating joke about my father is that the only gift he ever gave me was low self esteem. But that’s not entirely true. He once regifted me a knife I had left at his house years prior, a rubber ball and a wooden dowel, its purpose a mystery still to this day. He also gave me his old Ipad at my brothers funeral, some kind of repentance after our 10 year estrangement, after an unfortunate incident involving me, an over caffeinated 14 year old, and his unpredictable temper. There were also the hand doodled birthday cards, which as a small child, I found enchanting. But as I grew older, they felt hollow and obligatory. My father is still alive. Not the version of him I’m familiar with, and not the version of him I used to fear. An older, softer version, with not much to say. He has dementia.

My father was a charismatic cult leader of sorts with an affinity for drawing out diagrams on white boards. An intelligent and eccentric artist, a character, storyteller, a funny man, and some may say a skilled manipulator. When I was 13 we sat in a Panda Express and he drew me and odd diagram on a napkin, trying to alienate me from my mother, albeit in a very creative way, by trying to convince me that she wanted me to have a teen pregnancy in order to keep me at home longer. Many things he said, didn’t always make sense to the logical person. For some reason, he was trying to entice me into moving in with him and his new wife. I perceived that perhaps he thought it would be impressive to her, to look as though he was making an effort with his daughter. He was the kind of man who, if you couldn’t push his agenda or be a useful part of his grand plan, you’d be discarded to some degree: the napkin with the diagram, used to wipe up remanence of kung pao sauce from the table after lunch.

I am the 14th and final of his children. All whom have had different complicated relationships and sometimes painful experiences with him. I am the only product of my father and my mother. He was lucky in choosing partners to procreate with, who raised 14 good, kind, and empathetic humans. The women who from my perspective, had minimal help from him.

I thought I was done feeling angry with my father, but I guess I’m not. One of those things I thought I’d dealt with arriving in a new package. “Are you sure you’ve resolved this? Are you certain you’ve moved on?”. I try to remind myself that parents are just people. My dad endured some level of abuse from his father, he didn’t feel loved by his father, and so the cycle repeats. I started coming from the perspective that everyone is doing the best they can, with the idea in mind that everyone’s parents provide them with a set of materials in which to construct their own castle. Everyone's castle will look different and unique, like snowflakes. Some are made of flimsy material like paper cards, and others stronger, brick and stone. Some are built to last, and some are temporary, until you can provide yourself with better materials. I do at times feel frustration, that now with his dementia, I’ll never have answers to certain questions. It’s a strange kind of grief. But honestly I don’t know that even If I asked him prior to his mental decline I’d have any answers I could trust. He tended to construe story in ways that made him the hero. His charismatic approach made it difficult to distinguish lies from truth. My mom said he used to say that he was the sword, used to cut others down, so that they could rebuild themselves and be better for it.

For many years I allowed men to treat me poorly. I abandoned myself in the name of appeasing someone else. There’s this constant seeking for approval I could never really escape. I think no matter what, a fatherless woman cannot fully escape it, it is the classic daddy issues trope. So you look for it in your male teachers, you want them to like you, approve of your work, think you’re intelligent. And you begin to place these men on pedestals they never earned the right to be on. To give them awards they never wanted. Then in high school you seek the attention from your male peers. Do you like me, am I beautiful, am I playing the part you’ve written for me with enough enthusiasm? Your self esteem is that delicately placed card castle, balancing. One shaky hand, one “no” or perceived rejection and it all falls. You seek it in professors, bosses, boyfriends even baristas… But one day, rest assured, you will finally seek it in yourself. And know that only you can fill that void. Only you can give yourself that approval. Card by card you rebuild your paper castle. It gets knocked down again and again. until you realize the structural integrity of the piece was never sound. You didn’t have the right materials. You have to strip it all back to the foundation and start over with solid bricks. Each brick and affirmation from self, a boundary placed, a goal achieved, a promise to yourself kept. A whisper of gratitude for the person you’ve chosen to become. And you choose it everyday.

And so the Alanis song continues,

And all these little rejections, how they disappear quickly
The moment I decide not to abandon me

The moment you decide you will no longer abandon yourself for anyone, and the moment you make the decision to choose yourself, is the moment you are free.

xoxo,

Emily