Confession From a Girl With Daddy Issues

So only my therapist knows about this, but I feel like I should tell a bunch of strangers about it. I always thought my parents were married, but one day while I was looking for my social security card for my new job I found out that my parents were actually divorced. They threw in the towel shortly after I was born and for the next eighteen years pretended like they were still together. I should’ve known there was something wrong when my mom refused to sleep in the same bed with my dad. Even long after I turned eighteen they pretended to be married.

My dad could’ve left as soon as I became a legal adult, but he stuck around. Why? I wish I could ask him, but the problem is I don’t speak Spanish and my dad couldn’t speak English. So there goes our communication not that we had any to begin with. We would use my mom as a messenger, but lately she’s proven to be unreliable.

She holds this deep resentment towards my dad for leaving her for another woman when she’s at her lowest. So I don’t talk to my dad at all. I couldn’t ask him how he’s doing even if I tried. On top of that, what can we talk about when we clearly don’t have anything in common? He loves to drink and watch sports or something and I don’t. I remember one time we tried to do a father- daughter bonding which might as well be an awkward date, because we just sat there in silence. We were only at the restaurant for thirty minutes and left, because it was that awkward. We both agreed to never do that again.

It’s been a good year or so since I’ve spoken to my dad and at this point I’m feeling completely hollow about this situation. I withheld this information from my therapist, because at that time I didn’t know it had anything to do with my anger management or anxiety issues. I did told her about that strange phenomenon when I worked at Cracker Barrel (if you read Me On Country you would know what I mean). She chaulked it up as euphoria or anxiety and I thought so as well. However, it wasn’t until a couple weeks after my boyfriend and I split up when I had a revelation.

I had come to terms that my ex and I are never getting back together. However, I’m still upset that I wasted over a year with him. As I sat in my car crying, Spotify thought it’ll be funny to play Whiskey Glasses by Morgan Wallen. I’ve listened to this song before plenty of times, but I’ve never actually heard it word for word. The way he practically begged the bartender to pour him shot after shot to forget about his ex had me hyperventilating. I felt this pain in my chest that I’ve never felt before. I’ve had my share of exes, but this one hits me harder than the previous four.

There were so many emotions going on at the same time: pain, sadness, anger. At one point I thought about unaliving myself. The song continued to play, but the track started to sound warped and shaky as if I’m under water. Not this again, I thought to myself. I just wanted to cry in peace. The music began to slow down as if someone was messing with the record player. Why was it doing that? I checked my Bluetooth; the track on my phone is working fine. I moved the dials on my radio, but the song progressively gotten worse. White noises came through and I could barely make out what Morgan Wallen was saying. I started hitting my radio. Perhaps it’s a malfunction of some sort? The white noise continued to over power the music when I decided to just turn off the car, but before I was able to do so the white noise started to fade away and the audio became clear once again. However, that’s not Morgan Wallen. In fact that’s not even country I’m listening to. It’s mariachi music and I know that iconic voice and song anywhere. It was Por Tu Maldito Amor by Vicente Fernández! What was it doing on my playlist? I looked down at my phone, but instead of the screen telling me what’s playing on Spotify, it showed me a series of texts from one of my ex boyfriends accusing me of cheating because I didn’t answer him fast enough.

“Why do you continue to entertain him,” a man asked in Spanish. I jumped. Who was that? I met my gaze with my dad who was sitting in the driver’s seat. He was in his sweaty work attire, tanned from being in the sun all day. How did I moved to the passenger side without knowing? How did I not realized the interior of the car changed? I’m not in my Nissan but in my dad’s Expedition. I looked out my window and we were parked outside of my old job at Burger King. Why are we here?

I looked down and I was wearing my black Burger King uniform again. Damn it, I went back to 2018. “He don’t know how to keep a job,” my dad continued. “He can’t drive. He still lives with his parents. He doesn’t make you happy. Why are you still with him?” I shrugged. I had no answer. My phone dinged again. It’s another message from him. My dad pointed at my phone. “He’s got time to put you down and make you feel like a shitty person, but he couldn’t seem to find the time to better himself. What else can he bring to the table other than pain?” The answer was nothing, but my dad knew the answer. We both knew. Suddenly I felt tears going down my cheeks.

My dad sighed. “When are you going to open your eyes, Linda? When are you going to realize that you can’t change him?” That’s the thing. I’ve been trying to change all my exes, believing that if they loved me that much they would change. Perhaps that’s why I’m attracted to shitty ass men. “You need to leave him. He’s dead weight,” my dad continued. My phone dinged again. This dude is literally screaming through text! “That’s not love right there. That’s abuse and you don’t need to take it.” He’s right I don’t. “So when will it end, Linda? When does this cycle end?”

My phone continued to blow up with message after message of him calling me a slut and a bitch for not answering him quick enough. Meanwhile Vicente is singing about his shitty relationships and my dad continued with his rants. “When does it end, Linda? When does it end?” I was completely overwhelmed by what’s going on. I need a moment to think or at least hear myself think. I need to find a happy place, perhaps that dive bar from last time would do. I closed my eyes, hoping it’ll just take me there, but instead it took me back to my car with Morgan Wallen blaring through my speakers as if nothing happened. I had no explanation of what just happened.

I told my therapist this and she found this interesting. She jotted something down and asked me to tell her everything I know about Morgan Wallen. Odd, but okay? So I did from the basics to some off the wall facts. She took notes the whole time I spoke and afterwards she said, “I noticed something. This whole entire time you were ranting about him, not once you mentioned about wanting to sleep with him. I found this rather odd since about 80% of females who happened to be big fans of male celebrities would dream of having intimacy with them.” I didn’t know why we’re having this conversation to begin with, but I let her carry on. “You mentioned the first time this happened you were whisked to a dive bar without even actually going to one in real life. Now you were sitting in your dad’s car having a conversation with him about one of your exes.” I failed to see her point. “Country singer serenaded you at a dive bar to ease your stress and your dad gave you a pep talk to leave a toxic relationship. Do you see a correlation?”

I shook my head. She continued. “I’ve been looking at this all wrong believing it to be euphoria when it’s not. Your brain is simply associating this country artist with your dad assuming that he reminded you of him to a certain degree.” Okay, she might be on to something here. “It could be physical appearance, demeanor, or personality,” she continued. “Or the fact that his music gave you the nostalgia of having that conversation with your dad. My guess is that your celebrity crush is not really your celebrity crush, but more of a second father like figure that you feel like you can relate and probably communicate better with since your dad can’t speak English. Think surrogate father or a stand in if you will.”

That makes sense, but why would I ever think about a country artist as my second dad? Matter of fact why would I want to replace my dad? I still love him. “If this gentleman and your dad are sitting in front of you right now, who would you talk to first?” Damn it, she got me there. She already knew the answer. “You can relate to each other at a certain level not only because you speak the same language, but also because you’re in the same age group as him. Does this make sense?”

Indeed it does. This past year I was simping on a country artist because I missed my dad and this guy- despite being white and talented- reminded me of him. How I didn’t see the red flags I don’t know. Perhaps while every single girl out there wishes to sleep with him, I refused only because it’ll feel wrong. That’s because in my mind it is wrong. It’ll feel like incest to me when it’s not.

My therapist told me that I’ve been using Morgan Wallen as a “crutch” for so long, I need to actually sit down and have a conversation with my real dad. This is her method of “weaning” me off. She said that although verbal communication is a challenge, body language is a universal language. My dad can understand when I’m upset or when I need a hug. It’s a barrier I’ll have to overcome, not today, but some day I’ll have the guts to sit and have a conversation with my dad hopefully in Spanish.