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Daddy’s Little Girl
I am the firstborn daughter of my dad, and for a time, I pictured myself as his little girl. Somewhere along the line in my life, that changed, and I would often find myself on the defensive end having offended him.
When I was a child, anything could seemingly set him off. I always felt that I could do nothing right even though I tried to be perfect. My dad always led me to believe that there was always something better I could do, and my good was never good enough.
I was daddy’s little girl until my brother was born. Then, it seemed that there was a distance. I noted it quickly … around the time that I was three. This would be the same time that I knew that I would never be able to go to him about my mother’s abuses against me. I was daddy’s little girl until there was a reason for me not to be.
A Man of Contradictions
I would quickly learn even at a young age that my dad could be a man of contradictions. He always claimed that he did not care a lot about what other’s thought, but I always sensed that he did care. In fact, he cared especially when his children were seen as reflections of him. He did care when his children were measured against the children of his relatives.
My dad could be competitive … very competitive. He was always creative with making up games for us to play as a family. These games were always in his best interest because he was always the winner. Although he taught my siblings and me a lot, he could at times be regressive in having us figure things out on our own. That strategy proved to be good and bad for a number of reasons. He would say one thing but do another, and questioning him could place one in a very bad position because he did not like being challenged by anyone especially his children.
Although my dad prided himself on being a minimalist and living a simple life, my life growing up with him as a parent was anything but simple. If something was up, it was really down. If something was inside, it was really outside. Life as his child felt often complicated and conflicted, but there was very little that I could do. His law was the layout for my life, and although I found millions of reasons to deflect from his law, I rarely deflected in order to keep the peace.
He was rarely wrong about anything (or so he thought), and he did not like being shown up by anyone if he was wrong. Yet, on the flip side, he was right about a lot of things. He seemed to have great wisdom, and when he taught us anything, he taught us through examples using short stories and parables. I was always so mesmerized. I thought my dad was cool.
Even now, my dad has a great sense of humor, and my siblings and me were never short on having fun experiences because of him. He would take us on nature walks and tell us stories about his life. He would take us fishing, and he would take us on trips to different cities and states. Life was one great adventure with my dad, but there were indeed a lot of ups and downs too. It was a narcissistic household after all. Yet, he somehow granted all of us a reprieve at times from hellacious drama even though he could be a major part of the problem.
All About Appearances
Because I was branded “kooky” since I was a small child, my dad cared about how I made him look to others. My nickname was given to me by a relative because I was considered to be a weird and different kind of child. Most often, I would feel my dad’s cold rejection towards me because of what others thought of me. Other times, I would feel his beaming pride showered upon me. Our relationship was one based on my performance. If I did exactly as he desired and others approved and applauded, then he was proud of me. However, if I did something that made him feel embarrassed and ashamed, then he was more than annoyed with me. Fiery coals of hard-rock lava would be cast upon me, and I would cry on the inside.
My father was always concerned about how others saw me. It did not seem to matter what I wanted at all. It only mattered to him that others viewed me as successful. Ultimately, my success was his success. My success was a reflection of him. My dreams were not my own, and the dreams for my future that I had, I realized that they were best not to ever share with my dad. He was the crusher of dreams. Although he would tell me that I could do anything that I set my heart and mind to doing, whatever my dreams were had to meet his approval. Whatever I wanted to do had to meet his approval and ultimately the approval of onlookers.
Nothing saddened me more in my life than the feeling that my dad disapproved of me, and he seemed to give his disapproval of me often. More so than my mother, my dad would throw daggers into my very heart and cause my heart to bleed and sob in pain. He could cut me so deeply with a stern look of satisfaction on his face while he did so. Those were the times he reminded me of my mother. Those were the times that he seemed worse than my mother. Those were also the times that I felt my parents both worked in sync.
As I grew older, my dad would realize that my overall distance and my subtle denial of his presence in my day-to-day life was a reason for him to reflect on where he might have gone wrong as a parent to my siblings and me. He had times of self-reflection and overall growth. He once told me that he wished that he could do it all over again … as in relive those times so that he could be a better parent. I do not. I do not wish this at all. If given the chance, I would never go back and relive the nightmare that was my childhood. I take it for what it was, and I just desire live to tell about it. I get it though. My dad took time to look back and reflect with regrets. I guess he was remorseful.
Living To Tell About It
Since I am living to tell about my story, I know it is best to tell the story as accurately and honestly as possible. For far too many years, I was told by “friends” that I place my dad on a pedestal because I talked about him more compared to how often I talked about my mother. Over time, however, a few “friends” began to understand my reasons. What could I really say about my mother? I am not saying that there were not good times with her, but I have many more stories to share about my dad than I have to share about my mother even though both my parents made home life a volatile place.
I feel like my mother taught me nothing. Literally. Nothing good that is … I learned the most from my dad. Even regarding the subject of female issues, my dad would go out and get his aunts to talk to me because my mother simply did not talk to me about what was necessary. If my mother did talk to me, she talked to me with a tainted view. She spoke a lot through the lenses of hatred. My dad was different. He was not necessarily filled with hate against me.
Although I did not like a lot of my dad’s ways, I knew that he loved me. I knew that he loved his family. I knew that he loved my mother. Plus, my dad is not a narcissist. He might be a lot of things, but a narcissist is not one of them. I would more brand him borderline which has its own set of issues. Unlike my mother, my dad has empathy. In hindsight, I now realize that his empathy was often difficult to show after years of living with a narcissistic wife. He had to show strength. He had to show that he was the man of the house. So, I get it.
Now that my parents have been divorced for close to 30 years, my dad is not at all the same person he was during my childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood. He has mellowed and has seemingly really worked on improving his relationships with my siblings and me. He has also really worked on improving himself. Although some things have not changed, I can far better tolerate him than I can my mother.
Stay tuned for my next posts how life with my dad was incredibly hard in terms of living in a narcissistic household, how the narcissistic personality disorder of my mother affected him and how he related to my siblings and me, and how times have somewhat changed for him since no longer being married to my mother.
My Voice Unchained 