I dare you to find me someone without parental issues. Better yet, find me a woman without daddy issues. It is my belief that all of us carry some damage from our parents in some regard; whether it was not meeting basic needs, not buying us a pony, or allowing us to develop bad habits; we all have an issue with what our parents did or did not do to us or for us. My parents (who are divorced three and four times over) did their fair share of “damaging” me and my Sir’s parents (who were married for 40 some odd years) left him slightly skewed too. Polar opposite upbringings but we both have issues, albeit different issues, but issues nonetheless.
Notwithstanding, each parent did the best they could at the time with what they had. And each parent was better than their parents, was better than their parents, was better than their parents, et. al. And we believe we are doing better with our five than our parents did and we hope that they will be better parents than we are.
My daddy dearest came to visit this past week {well, I refer to him as my father actually}. He was my creator, my dad adopted me and Pop was well, my pop. My father is not an enigma. Typical young father, rethought the idea of fatherhood after my little round blue eyes and red head greeted him on my birthday so long ago. From there ensues the typical he said/she said and the he did/she did story. I really don’t care that you two didn’t like each other 48 years ago. Not my problem, but you should’ve thought about that before creating an angel.
As the story goes he dropped out of my life, signed me over to my dad and disappeared (by the way, found a new wife and had a new daughter). I was about twelve when he blew back into my life. Shock is an understatement. For all this time I thought my dad was dad/father and there was no other. As a young preteen trying to find my identity (and already dealing with depression and anxiety) this seriously messed with my head.
The next fondest memory I have of the father is living with him briefly and sharing a bed with him in his one bedroom apartment, because obviously wasn’t prepared for a child. There is a catch to this memory though. I was sexually inexperienced at the time and I remember awakening in the afternoons after a nap, in the middle of the night, or early in the morning; what was odd about these moments was my lower back was wet and something soft was rubbing against it. Hmmmm? I could never figure out what was going on.
In later weeks and months, father decided I needed to learn how to kiss. Which I was thankful for not too much later because I french kissed my first boy under a tree on the field at school. But I digress; father wanted me to sit on his lap and it was kisses on the cheeks, that progressed to kisses on the lips, that progressed to open lips, and finally french kisses. And I appreciated that too, as I’ve been told many times what a great kisser I am.
Many, many years later I came back to my father’s house for the holidays. I was gifted with a beautiful teal blue night shirt from Victoria’s Secret. I was encouraged later that evening to put it on and come to father’s bedroom to show him how it looked. He wanted me to come lay next to him so he could feel how soft it was. The next thing I know, my father is fucking me.
Granted I was of age and consented, but my head was permanently messed up. From that experience I subconsciously made the connection that sex = love, and that led to the continual pursuit of men to give me that fatherly “love”.
Daddy’s Girl, Angel 