Daffy Doormat

Sad is the new Happy.

I've decided, during the course of the decade's turnover last night and after an arduous argument with my husband about why I am so mopey these days, to not give a shit about a lot of things anymore. Like, whether or not I am finding my true calling. (Who cares, just do your job, Daffy.) Like, whether I ever will succeed in getting any kind of recognition from my dad of the fact that I am an actual person, with feelings, not just a projection of his petty paranoia. (Recent developments just demonstrated once again what a sad excuse for a parent he is.) Like, whether I am certifiably ***happy***.

The last few months were wrought with anxieties and frustrations, to which I reacted the usual way: very emotionally. It became oppressive and plainly exhausting to work on not being depressed. Being sad, frustrated, thwarted meant something wasn't right in happyland. Ergo, my plan for 2010 is to reprogram my thinking. What is this self-imposed happiness tyranny all about anyway? Why can't I just be sad if stuff that happens makes me so? 

So my New Year's resolution is TO BE SAD. It's my fucking party, so I'll cry if I want to, thank you very much.

 

Getting over it.

Many times over the past decade I found myself arguing with friends and family about why, oh why, I don't just finally get over the fact that my parents were flawed. And inevitably those discussions made me feel awful, because now I felt not only inadequate, but, in addition, incapable of resolving my feelings of inadequacy and my need to place blame. To any of you who have been in relationships, romantic and otherwise, that made you feel and act doormatty, you know what I mean. It's not like you flip a switch and pouf! Years of agonizing and expensive therapy (see prior posts on the subject) are necessary to build what was left unbuilt: a strong and healthy sense of self.

So when I hear that I need to get over it from someone, I want to gently, kindly remind that dear friend that I most likely never will. Parental love, attention and — when done right — the resulting emotional health is something you can never recreate later in life. You cannot think yourself into feeling loved. The foundation simply isn't there. It takes years of hard work to build from scratch something that even remotely resembles the power you receive from those first two decades of unconditional belonging. All the failed relationships, the cried-through nights and the idea that nothing will ever change, because somehow YOU, and only you, are singled out to fail, are the emotional equivalent of a Mt. Everest, a mammoth rock blocking the way to even the humblest slice of happiness and peace.

Every day I inch closer to filling that empty cup that sits where my self-esteem should have been. It's more than half full now. Will I at some point entirely get over the fact that I was handed an empty cup? I may let go of it. But never get over it.

Look mom! No kids!

Since the fact that I don't want or have children is a continuing subject matter in my life, I perk up when I see other people's musings on the subject. Via Twitter, I found the blog of Karyn and Eric Murphy. Karyn — from what I understand — is a Los-Angeles-dwelling, workaholic assistant to Ashton Kutcher. She started a blog about her choice not to procreate and it is done in a funny, empathetic and non-judgmental way. For all you other dried up and shriveled uteri out there (I kidd, I kidd!), here's the link:

Reasons To Be Happy That You Don't Have Kids

The bottom of the roll.

Two weeks ago, I was back in Germany visiting my family. I spent a morning at my dad's house, cleaning out my old closets. He's in the midst of rearranging stuff, since his girlfriend is apparently finally moving in. So I'm going through boxes of my childhood things, deciding what to keep and what to toss. Do I really still need the little plastic buggy car with three wheels, that for some reason I loved back then as if it had a soul? Yes. But I tossed the old Duran Duran poster. And, hey! There was my Rubik's Cube! A keeper, of course.

Before the tossing began, we had breakfast together and I noticed something. It was not a big deal at the time, a detail, but typical for my father and in a way sort of funny. My father had doled out rather small and stingy portions of the usual German breakfast stuff, soft-boiled eggs, ham, tomatoes, jam. There was a basket of "brötchen", that German staple of breakfast foods, a tasty soft roll with a nice, crusty shell. Four brötchen were in the basket. My dad picked one up and started cutting it in half, separating the crusty top from the bottom. Then... he handed me the bottom.

My father has always been the sort of man who wants to keep the best morsels for himself. He used to get mad when my mother stole a coveted last bite off his plate, a piece of meat that he had patiently been waiting to eat, saving the best for last. I remember my mother's mischievous giggle, but I also recall her confusion, her need to know that he would gladly give her his last tasty bite, and her ultimate realization that he was nothing but irritated.

So it came as no real surprise when my father handed me the bottom of the roll. I was even willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, until... he did it again! Instead of shoving one of the hard-boiled eggs down his throat, as I may have wanted to do in the past, I felt sad for him. Here he was, sinking his teeth into the crunchiest, yummiest part of the brötchen, but he would never feel the joy of sharing something lovely with someone he loves... because he cannot share, and — most importantly — he cannot love.

A few days later I was back at his house, this time with my husband, who had come to join me. I hadn't told him of my father's the-top-of-the-roll-is-for-me-and-me-only-obsession, lest my husband think I exaggerate every little thing my dad does. So we had breakfast, together with my dad's girlfriend G., and I honestly didn't pay attention to the way the brötchen were divided that morning. I had other stuff to notice and be annoyed by; there's never a shortage. But later that day, my husband said:

"You know what I noticed today at breakfast? I mean, maybe you don't think it's a big deal, but I sort of thought it was funny. Your father kept cutting the rolls in half and every time he did, he handed his girlfriend the bottom. And before he gave it to her, he would look at the top half and squeeze it like... mmmhh... nice top of the roll... ok, now here's the bottom. It was so weird!"

My jaw dropped. I thought how lucky I am to have this man for a husband. He totally saw it. He got it. He knew. He's my lovely, crusty brötchen, all top, no bottom.

My mom's affair with that cheesy singer.

Today I rummaged through old photos. I came across one that made me gasp. It's a picture of me, age 10, next to... let's just say a then very famous and very cheesy crooner. Can I say who it is? What if his peeps read this and they sue me? Well, they can go ahead, my mom will vouch for me. She's actually not shy about this story anymore. So, you want to know who it is? Hm. For now, let's just call him E.

In the swinging seventies, my mom had a big thing for E., whose songs just made her weak in the knees. They made me nauseous, but I had no choice. She cranked his audio cassettes up in the car, his LPs at the house, she sang along and danced, in her platforms, at parties. He made her swoon. My mom has no taste in music, never had. When you hear who it is, you may barf. I must warn you.

So then, in 1977, she forced my dad to go see this guy live in Las Vegas. Las Vegas...that alone should tell you something. During the show, E. was choosing women from the audience to bring on stage and give a sweaty kiss. My mom's blond hair and puckered pout must have screamed "Pick me!", since E. actually lifted her out of the crowd. Then, true to form, he bent her backwards, seriously, like the women on the covers of romance novels and made out with her on stage. Oh, yes, there was tongue! My father was so proud. The photos depicting this momentous occasion hung in my parents bedroom until the nineties, until my dad eventually took them down, quite a while after my mom had moved out. I remember often looking at them, thinking why my dad would have pix of his wife, making out with someone other than him, over the bed.

Neither my father nor I knew then that my mother somehow at that very first concert managed to get in touch with the E.'s management. And she made plans to fly and see him in another state. I was told at the time that my mom was going to a concert and would be away for the weekend. My father..I don't know what he thought. Maybe he really did believe that his wife was just a crazed fan. And she was. She was, let's face it, a star fucker, leaving her husband and young child at home eating Spaghetti-O's in her adulterous absence.

Fast forward. When my mom turned 50 in 1997, I took her to the Caribbean. The night of her birthday she told me the story. How she went to see E. at his various tour stops, telling my dad she was going there with friends. How my dad accepted it, apparently not understanding what was going on. How she somewhat enjoyed pulling the wool over his eyes. She even took me to meet the singing douche backstage one night, that's when the photo was taken.

Me: Mom, really?? You were kind of a .. groupie-whore?  Holy fucking shit! MOM! Cool...

No, that's not how I reacted. I was kind and understanding about it. Amused. She was actually a bit embarrassed. Yeah, I'd be, too, if I had slept with this guy, for sure. Secretly, though, I thought how sad it was, that at age 31 my mom was going off into groupie land, completely alienated by her husband, who had so little interest he couldn't even fathom she's actually doing it with this married singer-dude. I remember missing her when she was gone, longing for her return. I felt alone and helpless with my dad.

My mom. She's made some odd, screwed up choices in her life. She's certainly not an innocent bystander to my doormat history. For now, I just have to get over the photo of me with that pathetic smile of excitement on my face, cause, you know, it was E. after all.

In defense of speaking up.

How nice! We can all mellow out a little. It's done and the right man won the presidency. No more waking up in the middle of the night with the certainty that we are all going to hell in an Alaskan hand basket! Anxiety and excitement is giving way to a profound feeling of elation and accomplishment. Panic is fading. Appetites are returning. In fact, I feel like eating a double cheeseburger right now!

Last night I had a conversation with my therapist. The first 20 minutes we solidly spent on discussing the election. I needed to be debriefed. Then we switched the subject to how I feel, other than about Obama. And returned swiftly and predictably back to the topic of mom and dad. I mentioned that I recently began writing this blog, but was reluctant to show it to anyone, afraid people will judge me or my writing. I remembered times in my life where I loved to be expressive and opinionated, and was labeled "difficult" and "aggressive" by my parents. Some people might like to be called that (Hillary Clinton, maybe? KIDDING!!), but I didn't. I wanted to be seen as strong and smart. Unfortunately, whenever someone tells you that your strength and intelligence are really obnoxious traits, boy, does that tear you down.

I regret all those times when I kept my mouth shut in order to remain, well, attractive. It only took two decades, but I see now how the attempt to diminish my expressive tendencies was deeply misogynistic in nature. My father was bothered by me and my mother fell in line, because she wanted to please him. The irony is that my mother is probably one of the most opinionated people I know. She had phases when she was proud of me for saying what I believe in, but those were short lived. Ultimately, her desire to appeal to my father and keep me under control won out.

Where's all this going, you may ask? Here: if you're a woman with a fiery voice and you wonder if it is acceptable to be outspoken and positively fierce, don't think about how mommy and daddy will see you. Speak up. You will be labeled and you will be criticized, but so what? I spent years as a doormat because the forest fire inside me had been diminished to a heap of smoldering ash. I was afraid that no one would love me if I pushed too hard or said too much. I became depressed. It wasn't good. Self-expression is a virtue and your convictions matter. It's like voting, not just every four years, but every day of your life.

 

Wow, on that note, I think it's time for my double cheeseburger.

ALASKAN HANDBASKETS

Daddy Dearest

Good morning, world! I wrote yesterday's post late in the day. By this morning, my miniscule audience had doubled. You might say two times zero is still zero, yes. Haha. But even though I can't divulge how many readers I have (lest you feel bad for reading this blog at all), I can tell you the stats increased two-fold overnight. Does that mean politics outshine sex? Naw, it just means my recent posts prior to last night were lacking in juiciness. And I think it means we're all obsessed about this election to the point where it hurts. One more day, baby! (Or shall I says "babies", since you are, I promise, more than one reader?) What a ride it has been. Finally, we can get back to what really matters on Wednesday, so let me start you out with something not involving Barack Obama or John McCain.

Daddy Dearest... I presume you know where this one is going? It all starts with daddy, doesn't it? When I was young, really young, in fact a toddler still, I remember running towards my father one evening as he came through the door, home from work. The memory is actually pretty exact, even in the correct perspective, seen through the eyes of a small child. I remember his gray, flannelly suit pants. My father looked huge to me, and handsome. He had a bit of that Robert-Wagner-in-the-seventies-or-early-eighties-Hart-to-Hart look back then. He was, then, a very good looking man and my affection for him was surely helped by his pretty face, but he could have looked like a mole and I would have darted into his arms regardless. He was "daddy", one out of the twosome of people who took care of me and whom I loved and was dependent on.

As I ran for him I wanted to be picked up and hugged and swooned over, like any daddy's girl. I buried my face in the fabric of his pants, then stood there, looking up. I remember he said something to my mom. Knowing him, he probably asked about dinner. He then shook me off like a dog humping his leg and walked past me into the kitchen. Now you may think it's impossible to recall something so clearly that happened when I was so very young. Perhaps it is unusual, perhaps it remains in my memory only because it was the first memorable traumatic experience I had with a man, ever.

Over the last decade I thought back to this moment a lot. I often feel that these were a pivotal few seconds in my emotional development. I can still remember the sinking feeling of being ignored and dismissed. I wanted to cry, and maybe I did. I wasn't worth bending down for, I wasn't worth the energy to be lifted, swirled and made to laugh. Now my question is: does that deep sense of worthlessness ever go away? Of course my father didn't screw me up through the power of that one incidence. Years, decades of disinterest followed. He is the sort of man who should never have had kids. He simply cannot give. He is stingy in every way, emotionally, intellectually, financially, and he saw me as a burden. I've worked extraordinarily hard to get away from his view of me. As a young girl I excelled in school. I tried to be extra-pretty, which was especially hard during my pimple-riddled, flat-chested puberty. I moved across an ocean at the age of 21, to prove that I can make it there and make it anywhere. I tried everything to get approval and acknowledgement. What I achieved was a string of relationships that differed from that first, face-buried-in-his-pant-leg experience only in that these adult relationships involved sex. Ah, here we go! 

How crazy I was. I let certain boyfriends treat me with such indifference, yet I was always willing and ready when they needed to get off. One of those men (quite frankly, one I thought I would never get over) had a thing for kink. He liked sex that involved any and all orifices. Not that there's anything wrong with that! But his objective was to degrade me, it never felt quite right. There was no love, no tenderness, not even just good, jolly old fun. It was the price to pay in order for him to stay, and I paid it, gladly...sadly. He was a photographer, a fairly well-known one, too. He took pictures of the most beautiful women, the most successful supermodels. I wasn't jealous, not really. I didn't think he cheated, although he probably did. What really got to me, though, was that he never took a photo of me. Never once. Can you imagine? In two years he never pointed his lens at me. Hey! People say I'm photogenic! I take good pics! WTF? But I was chopped liver to him, invisible and insignificant. Yet I stayed. His generally hateful way of treating women was the ying to my self-loathing yang, and I didn't understand that I had picked him because I knew no better.

Today I often feel like I hate my father, but most days I am just very clear on the fact that I don't love him. I really don't, I'm not just saying that. Love, the real kind, is something that happens when another person sees the best, the very best in you and makes that the platform for everything else to be built on. Whatever you do, good or bad, you are first seen as good and worthy and lovable. This makes it next to impossible for you to be treated like a doormat. If you don't experience that love early on, you miss it forever. You get a therapist. You're told that you now must give that love to yourself, because no one else can. You think you'll never be able to do that. You wonder if anyone has ever succeeded in doing that, before going broke from paying a therapist. You briefly think you should have become a therapist! Then you start a blog and wonder if there are more like you out there. And you hope for the best.