So, Father’s Day is around the corner, and I admit to always having a really hard time finding the right card for this day. They all seem to say, “to the world’s greatest Father” or “from Daddy’s little girl,” when I really just need to find a less meaningful one with “Happy Father’s Day” that has a beer mug or fish on it. Any other card would not be true to my heart, and I don’t think he would believe it to be true either.

Growing up I seemed to have a pretty (air quotes) normal childhood, considering my parents split when I was a baby and my Mom raised my brother and I as a single parent. My Dad wasn’t completely out of the picture. He paid his child support like a responsible ex-husband, picked his kids up for every-other-weekend stays, and I can recall a dance recital or two that he ended up attending of mine, along with birthdays and other milestone events. I remember he would pick my brother and I up and take us camping, boating and fishing and we had a pretty good time. He and my brother bonded over stuff like that. It all seemed to be okay for what it was, on the surface anyhow.

As we got older, my brother started to think that it was way cooler to hang back with his friends and play Nintendo than it was to go with our Dad. So, I started going with him solo—and that’s when I started to realize that there wasn’t much to be said when it was just the two of us. More often than not, he would pass me off to his girlfriend or wife at the time to entertain me with craft projects so he can go do his thing. If he would’ve asked me what it was that I wanted, I would have told him I just wanted to spend time with him—a no brainer to what every little girl’s answer would have been. Even then, that’s just the way it was, and it wasn’t until way later in life that I would realize that I had developed a huge set of issues that would start festering in my adolescent years and linger into adulthood.

Our relationship was filled with one disappointment and broken promise after another. He kept me close enough to give me hope but never reached out to connect with me emotionally or show me that he loved me. And even though actions speak louder than words, he still told me he did—so I believed him—which was basically teaching me that love was complicated and was something that I had to work hard for when it came to the opposite sex.

With my Mom love came really easy, and she was the one that taught me how to love. She taught me to love unconditionally with my whole heart, and to focus on the good in people rather than the bad. So, over the years I’ve worn my heart on my sleeve and more often than not, continued to try winning over the affection of friends, family, coworkers, and boyfriends. Way after they’ve already proved that I should just walk, or run, away. I tend not to give up and fight for what I want—which is loyal—but I admit, it’s actually fucking exhausting.

Mixing this kind of dedication with a girl who learned that men love me on their terms, ended up becoming a recipe for disaster. And before you know it, I was a young woman stereotypically dating guys just like Him. It is such a cliché, but a true one, unfortunately. While he drank more than enough to drown his sorrows and overlapped his relationships with women like Pick Up Sticks, my thoughts were “somewhere deep-down he loves me, I know it, he’s just going through a hard time, I’ll just show him how much I love him and someday he’ll open up when he’s ready, he’ll see.”

He, and the dozens of guys that have floated in and out of my life from the age of 16 to now—have all had something pretty big in common. Though they all had great potential and enough strings attached to keep me hanging on forever, they were emotionally unavailable. I could always find the guy that could make my heart beat out of my chest, or charm my pants right off, but not love me in return. What kept me hanging on? The connection, the chemistry, and the potential of someday him realizing what we had together was love.

So, that’s the pattern. Even though I always knew I had a fairly large set of baggage, I didn’t over-analyze the issues or bring them much attention until I lost my Mom, when I was 33. It wasn’t until then that I recognized it. Without her, I was forced to see our relationship for what it really was, without any of her kind words there anymore to protect him, or to help me feel more pity on him than anything. I started feeling anger towards him—for not loving me, for not respecting my Mother when they were married, or respecting any other woman he brought around.

Don’t get me wrong—I do love my Dad. And do I think all men are assholes? No, I don’t. Fortunately, my brother turned out to be one hell of a great guy that has shown me that men can love and be faithful—and he has been the one to show me the unconditional love that I lacked receiving from you know who as a male role model.

After a lot of self-reflection, acceptance, and counseling, I can now say that I don’t believe my Dad did the things he did (or didn’t do) to hurt me throughout my life’s journey on purpose, but it still hurts and affects me. I think that somewhere along the blurred lines of his childhood, he wasn’t taught or shown how to express his emotions easily, or how to confront his issues that needed addressed in a mature manner. Instead, he kept them tucked down deep inside, and loved pretty much the only way he knew how. And, with this little bit of empathy, it makes it a little easier to deal with things not turning out the way I had hoped as a little girl—both in my relationship with him and with boyfriends.

It takes a lot to realize, and accept, that my collection of failed relationships doesn’t mean that I’m not capable of a successful and happy one. It just took me one hell of a long time to see that I’ve been setting myself up for failure for years by the type of the guys I choose to date—seeing their potential instead of addressing any of the red flags waving quite boldly in front of me right from the get go.

The behavior that I have had an unusually high tolerance for in the past is no longer acceptable to me anymore, or at least I would like to hope that I have the ability to change the cycle—I’ve been single since I’ve had these a-ha moments. I’ve been so focused on writing and doing so many other things right now, that dating just hasn’t been on my priority list. Loving a man isn’t on it—but loving and taking care of myself certainly is.

I’m 35 years old and still try with my Dad. I continue to put myself out there for opportunities to spend time together and schedule breakfast dates, even though nine times out of ten he ends up canceling—I almost expect it. Sometimes I still feel like that little girl with mixed and confused feelings, just seeking love and acceptance from her Father. And the truth is— even though I wish I had the strength to let him go too—I don’t think I’ll ever stop trying. Trying, wishing, and hoping for love that should not be so damn difficult to give back me.

Song of the Blog:
Star Mile  |  Joshua Radin  |  2006