There was a time, not that long ago, when I loved my daddy more than words could say. I absolutely idolized my father when I was a child. To me, he hung the moon and the stars. I truly believed he was the smartest man on the planet. He was god to me.
All I ever wanted from daddy was his love, affection and approval. I never received any of those things from him, yet I kept on loving him.
Daddy would always belittle me and tell me how ugly I was, he told me, repeatedly, that I should use my head for something besides a hat rack. Daddy always made fun of my nose and called me “ski snoot”, whatever that means, and would tell me that I got my nose from my great-grandfather on my mother’s side, even though clearly, and unfortunately, I have my father’s nose. It’s undeniable. The thing he used to say to me the most was , “Son, if you had a brain, you’d be dangerous”.
Yes, my father called me “son’. He also referred to me as ,”boy”, all the time, and I do mean ALL THE TIME.
As I look back, I remember how I never really got angry or upset about the things he would say to me. When I got older, and I’d mention to my friends about how he always called me ‘son’, and they always laughed and thought it was so weird, and I suppose it was. I never thought it was that weird, back then, though. I loved him no matter what ugly thing he said to me, and when people would question it, I would always take up for daddy saying, “that’s just my daddy’s way of saying he loves me”….and I believed it.
In school, I was always a good student. I may not have applied myself like I should have, but I still always received good grades. I was always in the upper level english and reading classes. In high school, I was allowed into the ‘Honors English’ program and remained all four years. I was an honor graduate with a pretty high GPA.
However, no matter how hard I tried, no matter what I did, nothing I did was ever good enough for my dad. Nothing.
I remember writing papers for my english class and feeling so excited about what I produced and running into the living room, where daddy was always sitting on the couch, watching t.v., and asking him to read whatever it was that I had written. Most of the time, he would tell me to show it to him later or I would have to sit and wait for a commercial before he even noticed I was standing there.
“Daddy, I wrote this essay, will you look over it for me?”, I would ask, my eyes twinkling with certain knowledge that THIS TIME I wrote something that would make him proud of me.
When he would finally take time to look at my work, his criticism would start with the first sentence. He always ended up telling me what I wrote was fucking garbage and he would get his pencil and cross words out and write in new ones. He would take out whole sentences or paragraphs, and that was on a good day. But mostly he would just tell me it was shit and to start over and re-write everything.
I would go back to my room, with my heart now located somewhere in my lower intestine. I never re-wrote anything, I would just turn it in the way I wrote it before I showed it to my daddy and I usually received an “A”.
Yet I always still loved my daddy…..