Daddy Issues

I was diagnosed when I was 16 - crudely and flippantly.

By my favorite therapist I’d had so far.

He was my favorite because we would talk about TV and his past as an actor and his life and I would flirt. Which I’m sure supported his theory.

“Diagnose” is a dramatic term. That’s like saying someone “diagnosed” you have shit on your shoes. Anyone witnessing the situation would know I had shit on my shoes. Except for me, apparently.

Which is why it was so crude and flippant.

I never saw him again.

I was already private about my circumstances because when you have shit on your shoes, you’re pretty insecure about the smell. Once I became affiliated with this phrase, a new slew of insecurities stuck to me in a cluster of stenches.

Daddy Issues is often a joke. We’re a hilarious group, the unwanted and unworthy. But sometimes it’s not funny. But it’s not cool not to laugh. It’s not cool to be sensitive. So I laugh harder. But not too hard. Because I don’t want them to know that I know too well.

I learned early that no one wanted to deal with a girl covered in this odor. In this desperate, manic, insecure gunk. Not for more than a night, at least.

So I worked. And worked.

And read.

And listened.

And therapized.

And meditated.

And astrologied.

And enneagrammed.

And Brene Browned.

And feministed.

And Oprahed.

And obsessed

and I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.

And I found under the plaque of self-hatred and pain that being rejected by a parent builds - was just a story.

I’d spent so long affiliating my whole self with scrunched noses and rolled eyes and venomous smiles from drunk men at bars I forgot it wasn’t an evil that made me stink but just something that happened. Once it went from identity to story, I wanted to share it.

I didn’t consider that no one might want to hear it.

During my time of concealing, I didn’t realize it was easy due not to my fear, but their lack of curiosity. There wasn’t much to hide because these men asked me nothing. I was so used to blaming myself - the one who would run out of my bars, cry under covers, scream at them to leave in desperation for them to stay. But as I was older and full of the love I’d been begging for when I was younger, I realized it’s not just me, it’s you. Them.

I finally asked, frustrated, “why don’t you ask me anything?”

and the response was “all of my girlfriends have had Daddy Issues.”

He said it crudely and flippantly.

I wondered if he could tell us apart or if we were just accessories he wore and he liked that we all had the same shade of trauma to match his eyes and make him feel needed. Worthy.

He said it like it’s part of my identity when it’s part of my story he never asked to hear.

He’d rather talk about TV and the past and his life.

I never saw him again.