Those area variety of names given to dad’s around the world. Some favorable and some not so loving. I’ve mulled over and over my issues with my Dad and I don’t really know where to start.

First, I shall say I love, honor, am very thankful for and am blessed by my Dad. He stuck it through my the hard times with my Mom, sat me down then I was running astray and constantly provided for me making me slightly spoiled. He made sure I went to college because he knew I needed it and constantly reminded me of how proud he was/is of me. He provided me my first car, college experience and food always on the table. He portrayed my pictures on his office desk proudly and was always offering direction. I know I’ve been blessed beyond my means and should not complain, but there’s something within me that breaks every time I think of my Dad.

I’m that girl that cries at cheesy set ups in movies and TV when the dad hugs his kids, etc. I lay in bed and have personal conversations with my Dad, easily mocking what I’ll know he’ll say to me as if he’s in the room. I’m just so angry and hurt. I’ve had a dad who stuck around, stayed faithful to my mom and provided to me and my siblings my whole life. Why on earth do I feel this way? Why as I type do I want to cry and shout all at the same time? Why do I feel the immediate need to write this out before I can finish my work?

As I’m writing I hear my Dad’s voice telling me “I’m not a good writer and I shouldn’t focus on that.” I think what sucks the most about that is I graduated with a writing degree. I actually wrote for my school paper and have come a long way in my confidence as a writer. I’m not going to lie, I hate writing for purpose. I hate being told, “write this now” because I typically get writers block and stay that way until I’m in the eleventh hour. In my last job, I was promoted to Project Manager and Jr. Copy Writer. I had a shit of a manager and he constantly told me I wasn’t a good writer. He actually refused my raise until I went to school for further education in writing. Funny thing was after I left work, our new boss read my work and actually liked it. And HE was a Sr. Copy Writer, too. Unfortunately, I left that job before he got the opportunity to restore faith in myself. So, now every time I’m tasked to write something I think first, “I’m not a good writer.” That kills me.

Fact is anything remarking on my intellect if serious to me. I grew up in an elementary, middle and high school were the majority of my class were fighting for the top 50% GPA in our area. Not just high school but area. I can remember being in elementary school with glasses, being left handed and dyslexia having to go to “special” classes while everyone else was enrolled in some sort of LEAP program. While they were working on projects that challenged their intellect I was forced to turn my paper side ways (because they thought that helped left-handed kids), learn what an accent mark was and that Tom Cruise was dyslexic, too. Yeah, that didn’t make me feel better. I wanted to be smart and not seen as a “special” class kid. I hated/hate being told I’m not good enough. So, ever since that moment in the third grade I swore I would never be seen as stupid. I forced myself into all the hard, AP style classes where I became an average student, but never once looked dumb to my peers. I was never able to join the Honors kids, but I was okay with them thinking I just didn’t want to be in it.  So, you can imagine why I get angry at my Dad for telling me I can’t write. It cripples me that the person I want to pleased with me the most says I can’t do something.

I’m a daddy-pleaser. I’m not a daddy’s little girl, but the little girl who wanted her dad to always be proud of her. Always saying, “Daddy, look at me!” while I did circles on my bike. “Daddy, look at my room” as I became the most organized six-year old ever. I did get those praises, but only those praises.

I think my Dad must come from tough men with narrow mindsets. When I was in college I went into school as a Psychology major. Yeah, I struggled, but I loved knowing I could do it. I was about to hit my second semester when my Dad said, “why are you in Psychology? That’s not where your gifts are, what are you doing there?” It WAS hard and I was just wanting to be happy, so I switched.

I think what worries me is that ME, just me will never be good enough. Never good enough to his standard of successful. I mean, he loves me and I know he’s proud of me, but I don’t know if he really took the time to get to know the real me if he would be proud of me.

My Dad and I are so much a like we use to (and still do) butt heads. When I was little I was constantly being threatened with spankings and being grounded. When I was older and living off their generosity it was worse. Fact is, as much as my Dad treats me like an adult I don’t think he knows I’m fully capable of being one. Always making assumptions of what I know and how I’m going to live my life. Telling me that “I’m in for a world of hurt if I don’t start living in the real world.” Complete dream crusher. I think his big break in my spirit was in college. I think he didn’t want me to come back home and live off them for a while, so he just pushed me toward whatever degree would get me a job and out. He always throws in the line, “well, don’t expect to come home if it doesn’t work out.” So supportive.

I don’t know. I don’t want to say he was a bad father or a worthless dad, but he sure wasn’t supportive. You would be talking to him, telling him something and he would walk away mid-sentence. I find the older I get the more I become like him. Very scary. Some things I don’t mind, but these types of things I don’t want. My brother is becoming like him, too. He, however, has had the worst of my Dad. I’ve always felt bad for my brother because here he was the only son of a very successful, strong man smoking pot and skating all day. He had it really hard in high school. At least it’s getting better for him now that he’s about to be on his own.

Truth is parents aren’t always great. They do a lot things to pick us up and pull us down. They’re as human as I am. I can’t fault them for that. I can’t pull the begrudged role of the girl who didn’t have the perfect father, when she should just be happy she had a good dad.

I’m sure there’s more in me to write about, perhaps some other time.