The Truth About Daddy Issues: Father’s Day Edition


This past week, I did a visualization of my self-slandering voices. I made them spirals in red. I then put the alternative replacement I want to start believing in instead, as a purple arrow moving in a forward direction.

spiral to arrow

One of the more prominent scripts I have been working with lately is “I will always find assholes.” This hard-wired message makes me doubt myself, my value, my ability to judge and often makes me feel extremely anxious and defensive around men. I worry that caring about one will end in me finding out he was just an asshole who had the wool over my eyes, someone not capable of loving me, being an equal or seeing me as an equal. I am trying to re-work this messaging and inscribe something else. A trust in my ability to judge. A slowness to the process that allows for checking in with myself to see if I am finding things I want in another person or just wanting to find them there. I am also trying to believe that there are men out there that are not assholes. That can love me, would want to, and are interested in and in awe of the person I am.


Here is a poem\mess I wrote today about having a father I don’t speak to on father’s day.

As we joked about how to message a father who didn’t,

Luke, I am my own father
Happy You Suck as a Father Day
Or just a simple “Fuck you” to convey the sentiment
it made me wish for each child he had a thimble sized fissure in his veins
that the blood was carried, like fishing lines, crossed, baited, waiting
to bring up a sunfish off the dock of lake George
where we went on our one and only family vacation
I want to tell him that I hope each item he orders in the mail
every rifle, hand gun and accompanying neatly rowed box of ammunition
is a reminder of the people he has brought into the world
that his replacement of their love with the accumulation of things
is a constant reminder of the marks he has dug into our flesh
the carving that happens over years, the span of decades
the intergenerational sorts that scar down to the bones
where the white of truth shows in a flicker
before sewn up
a mouth flapping at the jarred air
asking the questions I’ve asked myself
why was I not lovable?
What could I have done to be a child not worth valuing
to grow to an adult that a person couldn’t be proud of?
but the white is like the flash of teeth before a full growl
a small but distinct warning that a step further means you submit to the fear of your attacker
the four legged creature marking territory anxiously, so his scent will let others know he was in deed there. that he was in deed, somewhere.
because when the history books are made, a man leads a battle brigade into victory, discovers a property that wasn’t know of a certain type of cell, coins a phrase that becomes common, but no one speaks of the ways he abused his wife, the children he sexualized in his image
the scripts he wrote them in his myopic vision of jezebel, temptation, blood, guns, slut;
the slanted view of women he held to because the vantage point was from the crux of his mother’s open legs and he looked out like the pope over the crowd that comprised the entirety of women
I know you must have seen some shit. Been in the midst of some fucked up realities. I am sorry for that child within you. As for the adult that doesn’t protect it, or the ones he made externally, to combat the loneliness of that chubby cheeked, neglected and never able to please boy you still are at most times,
what you’ve done is beyond irresponsible.
It is to forget that you are made of bone, that shows white in the moonlight.
To forget you are made of veins, like fishing lines, fishing for heartbeats
to have no memory of the ways your sanity was held in each of the small fissures the size of thimbles in each of us that came into the world
to  have coated these memories, cut them out like malignant tumors
to have made your children the disease you are to be rid of to heal
when no excising can save you

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