MY DAD ISN'T SPEAKING TO ME

and other musings from a daughter raising her own parents

I sometimes hesitate to talk about my strenuous relationships with my father figures. I’m not a particularly private person, nor am I all that concerned with them finding this and wielding it against me. As if either of them would ever read my writing. Why would they? When there are fantasy football draft picks to make and morally repugnant college stories to romanticize and refurbish on Facebook?

My pause is more out of worry for the way it will be received by other people. The “daddy issues” narrative hovers above me a bit too close for comfort. Not only is that term wildly antiquated and sexist, it's also just plainly unfair. Why should they get to take credit for all my glaring personality defects? My fear of intimacy and sexual dysfunction are all my own, thank you very much. I have worked hard to develop trust issues as severe as mine, and I am not going to let two retirees steal my shine. So let’s talk about it. 

My dad hasn't spoken to me in two days. The silent treatment has always been a favorite in my household. I can’t remember when exactly this tactic was first implemented, and it’s not as if we never yell. We do a lot of that too. But nobody loves a Cold War more than my parents. While usually the battle is between the two of them, every once in a while I find myself in that icy, silent boxing ring.

Usually the crime I am being charged with is disrespect, ungratefulness, the use of a tone unbecoming of a young lady. When I was nineteen, for example, I was involved in a short-lived “situationship” that left me emotionally devastated. Through the gift of hindsight I now know that the entire ordeal was a performative clown show, absolute buffoonery, a mockery made of us both. But at the time, I was sure that it was love, and even though I was the one to officially call it quits, I felt abandoned and stupid nonetheless.

There I was in my snot-stained Abercrombie cardigan, crying at the kitchen counter and recounting to my mother what happened in the hallway that morning, and in walked dear old Dad. He hovered for a few minutes, chewed on trail mix and half-listened, then decided that I was clearly in desperate need of his wisdom. He explained that while he felt for me and my predicament, I really should have anticipated this unraveling, considering “how fast you two moved. I mean, you didn’t exactly play hard to get.”

Now, we don’t have time to unpack all of that. And I don't think we need to, y’all are smart. You get it. I called him a misogynist and a jerk and stormed off to my room. Any sane parent would have tucked tail and apologized right? I would have accepted even the nauseating “I’m sorry that you feel that I…” or “I’m sorry if I…” but no, none of that. Instead, he decided that my reaction was “rude and reactive,” and he spent the next three days icing me out. No eye contact in the driveway, no “good morning” when I stumbled out of my room puffy-eyed at noon, nothing.

Eventually I caved, for if there is one thing I fear more than fires and my old ballet teacher, it’s confrontation and awkwardness. It was me who ended up apologizing to him, for my tone, for my temperament, for dismissing his attempt to support me through this emotional time. He graciously accepted my apology, and followed up with his own half-assed, phoned-in accountability statement. 

A similar thing happened two days ago. My mother and I were having a conversation at the counter about what the best way would be for me to transfer her some money I owe, and Dad piped up from his chair with a whole lot of input. Now, it is not the content of his commentary that I take issue with. I am a reasonable woman, and pride myself on being able to take constructive criticism well (as Phoebe Bridgers sings in her hit daddy issues song Kyoto, “but please don’t hold me to it”). It was not the criticism itself, but the way in which it was delivered.

Father thinks I’m bad with money. True. Father thinks I allow my feminist political ideologies to affect my personal and familial relationships too much. Half true, I mean, I do. But isn’t that the point? Father thinks I should address him with more reverence and respect, to which I say, that goes both ways babe. 

We got into it. I accused him of judging me for a situation that he doesn't understand. I said that if he would stop being so condescending and diminutive towards me, maybe we could have a productive discussion about finances and credit scores. He laughed that laugh he laughs when he wants you to feel small, when he’s been caught in a lie or doesn't have a comeback, so he tries to make you cower by mocking you mid-argument. He rolled his eyes and I walked out, and now we are coming up on 72 hours of complete and utter silence. No eye contact, no “cold out there huh?” when I come inside, shivering from a mailbox run. An hour ago I said “hi” in my friendliest, most cheerleader-on-the-campaign-trail-for-homecoming-queen voice, and got a grunt in return. 

He’s waiting for me to knock on his door, where he will graciously set aside his laptop or stop playing piano to hear my heartfelt apology. He’ll say “I’m glad you have realized what you’ve done. Hopefully next time things will go differently,” then give me a half hug and ask what I want for dinner, like nothing ever happened.

Meanwhile, I’ll be stewing in rage for the next one hundred years. 

Anyway, here we are. To all my fellow daughters who have been burdened with the task of parenting your parents, of teaching them boundaries and the meaning of “no,” of repeatedly having to remind them what is and isn’t “just a joke,” I am with you in the trenches, eye-balls deep. 

With love and fury, 

Dronme