As women age, most entertain—and dread—the thought of turning into their mothers. They worry their mother’s hips will suddenly latch on to their torso, replacing the previously svelte ones, or Mom’s trifling nagging will find its way into their vocal cords, or perhaps Mother’s coolness will force itself into their body by some sort of osmotic process.
Not me.
I’ve never worried that I’d turn into my mom. Actually, I kind of wish I was more like her. She’s natural, relaxed, and playful. Everything I am not. Well, at least not on a regular basis or without the assistance of my favorite chemicals. So having her invade my body would actually be doing me a huge favor. But alas, the universe can be cruel. It’s not giving me what I want, but instead taunting me with the thought of becoming like my father.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t not like my dad. And I’m not some ungrateful daughter clutching onto massive amounts of resentments, ready to hurl at him at any time. I’m well past that. I’m just living in fear of ending up like him: lonely. I realize a lot of people feel lonely in this world, which is sad, but I don’t know their story. You know, what it took to land them on Loneliness Avenue. I only know how my dad drove himself there and how it feels as though I’m steering myself in that direction.
For starters, I’ve always dated my dad. Not in the Mackenzie Phillips kind of way or anything. Although that would make for a better story. But I’m talking more figuratively. My boyfriends were always some version of my dad: addicts, control freaks, abusers, or simply unavailable. That behavior was familiar to me, so I was comfortable getting controlled, ignored, or punched in the face. Until, I wasn’t. In Oprah’s lingo, I had my “Aha! moment” when I was twenty-eight. I recognized I was emulating my parents’ dysfunctional relationship. And as Dr. Phil says, the first step in changing behavior is recognizing it. I think now is a good time for a disclaimer: I think Oprah and Dr. Phil are flaming narcissists, but will use their “advice” in times of need such as this.
So after I caught on to my pattern, I tried changing things about myself and recognizing red flags in others. I guess you could say I put off the persona: I am woman, hear me roar. Clearly, I’m a bit of an extremist. Hey, I can’t conquer all things at once. Anyway, this year, I finally thought I’d ditched my daddy-dating behavior. I met someone who felt safe. In other words, it felt like I was dating my mother. Again, not in the incestuous way, but in the: Oh, being wrapped up in his arms makes me feel like I’m safe in my mommy’s womb. Okay, maybe that doesn’t sound quite right either, but you get my point.
It was the type of relationship I’d been striving for; a life-changing one filled with romanticism, security, and affection. Finally the universe was giving me what I’d worked so hard for—and deserved. Or so I thought. It seems the universe is not done messing with me and I suppose that’s okay. I mean life really is all about learning and some of us are slower learners. I’m sure I’ll get my gold star someday. It might just take a few more parent-teacher conferences to get me there.
