tristan

You make me miserable. I’m miserable all the time.

It has taken me over twenty years. Finally, in the shower this morning i understood.

On my sixteenth birthday my father picked me up from school so that i could go get my Learners License. The first thing he said to me was “you look like an aging french whore.” I’m not sure where that particular choice of words came from, but they stung. They hurt me to my core and i have talked about those words many times over the years. With friends, lovers, psychiatrists, strangers. They hovered over me, a constant ache. They stole from me the joy of a sixteenth birthday, a comfort in being and expressing myself however i wanted.

As i watch my daughter grow up i feel scared so much of the time. The boyfriend, the parties, the new social circle, the disinterest in me and the family. It’s lonely and scary and often sad. I am constantly trying to reach out to her. Tell her i love her as many times a day as is a little less than mortifying. She’s still there. I know she still loves us and that we still have a magical bond. She just doesn’t really need or want it right now. I force myself to be okay with it. To let her grow and blossom and become an individual. A shining light, well my shining light.

But, i get it now. My dad didn’t really think i looked like a whore he just didn’t have the emotional tools to tell me my growing up was freaking him out. Sometimes the cruelest words come from fear and desperation to hold onto what we have already lost.

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