I've Got Daddy Issues

Maybe they aren’t like the daddy issues you’d expect because I didn’t grow up in a stereotypically ‘abusive’ home. My parents are still married, none of my five siblings do drugs, they all enjoy sleepovers with friends, and go to church every week, the works.

But down to the nitty-gritty. I suffered some emotional abuse and neglect. To be clear, emotional abuse can be verbal manipulation and threats. Emotional neglect can be rejecting hugs or physical affection, refusing to communicate, or squashing joy because it’s “annoying.”

I’m happy to share some specific anecdotes, if you'd just indulge me (get them outside my head, please, don’t force me to keep them choked down anymore):

My father very rarely - if ever - said the words ‘love you.’ Never even “I love you,” but just a mumbled response with no eye contact, sometimes to the point of only responding “Okay,” or “Alright,” when I would initiate the “I love you,” “I love you, too,” call and response.

Other times he would shrug away from me, from an earnest attempt at a hug, or he would say “Don’t touch me.” I don’t remember the last genuine hug I got from him. 23 years is a long time to feel like I haven’t been really hugged by one of the people who brought me into life.

I remember one time before my first year of college, I messed up some paperwork (BIG time, according to the advisor, but what does she even know?). So I went to my dad after holding my tears back forever in the office and even on the drive home so I wouldn’t crash the car my parents entrusted to me, and I broke down in front of him. Crying, and a little hysterical, what I needed at that moment was comfort and reassurance that “Every problem has a solution,” just like he taught me, but what I encountered instead was “Go to your room and get yourself figured out. When you are calm come back and talk to me.”

Disappointment. Betrayal. Hurt. Exasperation.

I went to my room and crashed to the floor, wailing and exhausted. 18 years old, sobbing like I was five and had scraped my knee on the sidewalk. I can attest to the fact that I’m emotionally stunted from years of not being allowed to express myself.

Anyway, let’s not forget about the time (or rather, let’s entirely forget the time) that I literally jumped for joy in the grocery store because I saw a glittery display of Peeps bunny marshmallows at Easter-time, and I was told “Okay, fine, we can get them but stop doing that,” as he looked around, a little paranoid, that someone might see his child excited and acting like a child. That killed the mood instantly, and ever since 12 years old, I learned to curb my happiness to not embarrass other people. I know this has carried over into my adult life because my mom once noticed “I can’t seem to buy a gift that absolutely blows you away. Like, nothing really knocks your socks off. Your reactions are always like ‘Yay, cool,’ but nothing spectacular.” Yeah, mom, that’s because celebration and joy are for children and I’m not a child anymore; not even as a child was I allowed to feel that, or show it anyway...

Those are just quick examples, but I have more, locked away in my heart or floating to the surface of my mind like turds that just won’t flush. My dad’s behaviors had so many psychological effects on my life that, thankfully, I had the opportunity to study in college. Like I said -it wasn’t a stereotypically abusive home. My parents paid for me to go to community college and later to commute to a local university.- The Psychology program I studied unlocked the desire in me to become a therapist. Well, studying psychology, and also the fact that I’ve had a fixer-complex for most of my life. Being the oldest of my siblings, I always felt the need to do everything I could to make my parents’ lives easier. I also thought I could earn love that way. Whether that be by changing my brother’s dirty underwear when he had an accident (when I was four and he was three) while mom took a shower, or holding whichever of my newest baby siblings at church or for Christmas photos, or writing a diary of letters back and forth with my brother when he was 16 and suicidal - just to check in with him, make sure he’s okay, and not to feel guilty for not doing more for someone who was feeling the same things I once felt, I always had to fix other people’s problems.

Meanwhile, I was and still am rather broken inside. I ran away from home in May of 2021, at 22 years old. (Is it running away if you’re legally an adult?) I landed safely, seven hours south, in the arms of my then-boyfriend, now fiance, hopefully soon-to-be husband. My parents don’t support my relationship because they have other dreams for me: a master’s degree to become a licensed therapist, an apartment in a big city with some female friends, and no more foolish talk of marrying that man you think you love.

By the way, I say I have daddy issues because my mom claimed I moved straight out of one daddy’s house into a different daddy’s house. And this all came about because my fiance, who is almost eight years older than me, moved out of his house and into his brother’s. That way, I could move in and we wouldn’t be living together before marriage. But that’s not acceptable, still not good enough, in my mother’s eyes.

But that’s really a talk show for another day. I recently started to utilize a therapy app and I meet with my therapist once a week, normally. I thought studying psychology would help me be my own therapist, but guess what? Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. A broken person can’t pick up all her own pieces and superglue them together without help. Looking down at your own body, or even looking in the mirror to try to fit the puzzle pieces together doesn’t give you the right perspective to sort out the mess and clean it up well. I can’t even effectively be my fiance’s therapist, who struggles with anxiety and unresolved trauma from growing up in poverty in Mexico. That fixer complex is a real tough son-of-a-gun. It disappoints me. My dreams feel unfulfilled, but I’m learning to let them go because I don’t think they were a part of God’s perfect will for me.

I have a bigger, deeper, and more possible dream now. I simply want to be a stay-at-home-mom, homeschool my future children, and do housewifely duties. I find so much peace in the simplicity of not ever trying to fight the school system’s agenda, or worrying I’ll miss milestones because I’m juggling home and work, or worrying about paying a nanny to raise my kids for me. Not only do I have this bigger, deeper, and more possible dream, I have a man in my life who supports my dreams. I thank God for him every day and I focus on bettering us before I worry about the past I left behind, seven hours north. (Yes, I keep in contact and I am working slowly to repair relationships with all of my family; that's just not the priority right now.) We aren’t perfect, but our teamwork makes the dream work, and I don’t need a daddy while I’ve got my baby by my side.