With My Father

The first was the most painful, but he was just one in a long line of players who would reenact the part that I had written for them. It was the autumn of 1997 and I had dumped one of the most wonderful men I’ve known so that I could chase after a stoner with a roving eye and an illegitimate child that he barely saw. I’d never been crazier in my life. I joined theater groups to be near him, walked by his place of work in the hopes that we would “run in” to each other, and did the occasional drive-by. I wallowed in my Fatal Attraction moment, maneuvering my car outside his house, lights off, and my head ducked low. Hide your bunnies, boys! Freya’s here. Okay, so it wasn’t that bad, but I’m certain I broke at least three minor traffic laws while spying on him. Despite my insanity, the affair wasn’t entirely one-sided. It was intense, horrifically painful, and as always, ended by me in an anticlimactic whimper of disappointment.

By the time I got what I had wanted—his love and some semblance of devotion—it was too late. I didn’t want it anymore and I knew the change would never be enough for me. How typically insane. I fell for these men because they were emotionally impotent, then dumped them for staying that way. Or maybe, it’s not that insane. To tell you the truth, I think I wanted to rewrite my relationship with my dad, except in this one, after all the distance and indifference, this man would eventually turn to me, confess undying love, and everything would change, he would change … my dad would change. It was the day that I realized that this was behind my behavior that I stopped doing it. Ripping some guy (and myself) to shreds in the hopes that his changes would heal old wounds, it was the oldest of follies. So, I stopped.

It’s not that I’m any less commitment phobic or any easier to be with in a relationship. I still covet my freedom and restrain my compulsion to stray. I still struggle to feel beautiful and attractive while attached. The damage is done. And, like any good woman, I just practice a little damage control. Then there’s the relationship with my father. I still long for one of those relationships like my girlfriends have, one where my father secretly counts me as his most prized possession. At least now, I know better, and I’ve learned to build something new with my father, something separate from the little girl that he let go all those years ago.

Euripides said, “To a father growing old, nothing is dearer than a daughter.” I hold on to that and try not to feel bitter towards other women who go through life prized and adored by their fathers. I feel hopeful because it makes me think that despite what was lost in the past, the future may actually hold a chance for me to rewrite my relationship with my father, but this time … with my father.