I always wanted to be “Daddy’s Girl.” The kind of little girl who makes her daddy smile “just because.”

Because she is the apple of his eye and he is her hero, she and daddy share a beautiful bond. Like glue, they have a connection that mends all of life’s ups and downs. Unless mother prevents that.

No hugs, no lunch dates, no flowers, no sweet tears because no matter how old she is, this little girl would never be daddy’s girl. That could not ever happen. Mother saw to that. She told me that any physical interaction between a daughter and her father are “incestuous.” How inappropriate.

Throughout childhood, adolescence, and adulthood, “Daddy’s Girl’ was a title I’d never hear. Apart from being called “Dana,” I was Daddy’s “Little Girl.” It was always followed by “GET OVER HERE NOW!” That meant only one thing; I was in trouble for something I did not do. I was the scapegoat who didn’t deserve love- especially from my daddy. “Little Girl” came to mean, “No matter what, you are BAD. You are a child who can never earn the opportunity to advocate for yourself because you are not valid. You will always be a child we can step on and crush like a cornered bug that has no right to be inside of our house- or our lives.”

I was the “mistake that was almost aborted.” Such valuable information for a soul that was once intact. For this, there was no repair, and no daddy to stick to my side to dispute and overrule mother’s pathetic fear of anyone else winning HER husband’s heart.

She never did win his heart, and I wasted a childhood and beyond seeking her love. Seeking THEIR love.

She was an hourglass slowly emptying, never to be righted for replenishment or healing. Ever since the death of her father when she was 16, her life became black and white. She felt a forever emptiness in his death. Her life became the epitome of arrested development. All things were processed as good or bad. I fit into the “bad” category. She and her Borderline Personality Disorder finally got the opportunity to control her life. She abhorred me. She abandoned me. She banished me from what was supposed to be her heart- but was a dark, empty cavern.

After many years of therapy, and a diagnosis of PTSD that resulted from her heinous abuse, I maintain that
she taught me everything NOT to be. I am what I was created to be as a mother and wife. These are titles I have earned. I am worthy.

Often I think of how things will be when I grow old. Yesterday I saw an elderly woman. She was shaking. Lord- please don’t let that happen to me- because I’ve already been there. Every single time I heard “Little Girl,” I shook. I opened the door for her and wished her “good day,” but she was without words- just like me when “Little Girl” was confronted without the opportunity to defend myself. When she and I made eye contact, I saw a disconnection and an emptiness. I spent years trying piece together a puzzle that could never be complete, because many pieces were missing- just like the love I yearned for but never received.

Then it occurred to me: this old woman had no one to assist her, hold her hand, or support her as she tried to navigate her fragile journey. Her health was failing, her eyesight fading.

Maybe she had no children or husband in her life or her heart. Just like my mother.