Teach a Woman to Fish

I should consider myself lucky. Some people grow up never knowing a parent, or both parents. Some still, end up getting to know only to have them unjustly ripped from their childlike hands many years too soon. I have two dads. Or had, anyway. I’m now back to the normal ‘one’. But things don’t, nor have they ever felt, normal. Like the half of U.S. households whose children witness the divorce of their parents, I am yet another statistic.

But in the loss of my parents’ marriage, I gained a Stepfather. And his family, too. This was an exciting new addition. I went from a one-parent, two child household latch-key kid to a two-parent, many-excited-Jersey-Italians-at-Sunday-dinner-and-literally-every-holiday-imaginable---god-will-smite-you-if-you-don’t-attend household. It was exciting. There was someone to give me direction in life, and a supportive family to who seemed to care about my well-being. It was like a fairytale. But it started Disney, and ended up like Hans Christian Andersen. If you’ve ever read the original “The Little Mermaid”, you will know what I mean. It was like I had finally been given two legs to stand on, only to feel like I was walking on knives. Or eggshells, in my case.

I had what I thought I had always wanted. I had a voice and two parents that would listen. It wasn’t that I didn’t have this with my biological Dad, but he was often busy working in his blue collar job to support two kids without child support. This meant many nights alone without the parental guidance to help foster interests, guidance, or a trajectory in life. Sadly, having these things in my newfound nuclear family, came with a price: narcissism.

Many people misunderstand and misuse the term, as “narcissist” seems to have become the diagnosis du jour of any person that simply puts you off your mettle. But the diagnostic criteria are quite clear, and my Stepfather ticked the boxes. Grandiose sense of self-importance? Check. Lacked empathy? Check. Sense of entitlement? Double, triple, quadruple check.

It wasn’t all bad, of course. In my younger years, he saw my interest in academics, and pushed me to become the type-A person I am today. It was nice to have someone with a sense of direction who seemed to genuinely care that I achieved what I was fully capable of. But these dreams were dashed when I went off to college and decided to purse my own interests. In fact, when I decided to declare my own major, he took it upon himself to drain the account we set up together, leaving me penniless. Literally. Not even the change in my car cupholder. He took that, too. Despite the fact that I had accumulated all of my savings and paid for my car, he took it all.

For a while, I blamed myself. Why was I so stupid to have kept the account a joint one? A more objective me now realizes that it was because the account was set up when I was a child, and I—like a child would—placed trust in my parent. Flesh and blood or otherwise, I had faith that my guardians would have my best interests at heart. But I was wrong. He had his own self-interest at heart.

As an adult, I have mostly made peace with this. I have honored the gifts that he bestowed on me, and the sense of family that I briefly had before his untimely death. I have also honored the lessons I have learned along the way. They say if you give a man a fish, he will eat for a night. My Stepdad taught me how to fish, in his own way. Throughout my struggle, I learned how to fend for myself. And for that, I will be forever grateful.