The Importance of Fathers to Daughters

45 years later and I’m still impacted.

Have you watched the A&E documentary, Secrets of Playboy?

If not, you should. The TLDR is a creepy man, who we all thought was honorable and sweet, who had some fucked up kinks that damaged women who were groomed into his cult.

Hugh Hefner didn’t whip out the Quaaludes and Bill Cosby’s dick for every young woman who walked through the door. Per the Playboy Manifesto, the ideal “girl next door” isn’t sophisticated, doesn’t own lingerie, and is simple. That’s code for can’t-think-for-herself. Those were the target victims.

I noticed the common theme among all the women victimized by his empire came from homes lacking a positive father figure. What’s creepy is they viewed Hefner as a fatherly type; homeboy thought he was a perpetual hot stud.

As someone who had a strained relationship with her father, I get it. I get it.

I get the need to cling to a male to fill that void.

Not all women in need of the male species in their childhood are looking for an old man to nurture them back to life. I’m educated. I maintained a career throughout my marriage and motherhood. I didn’t need someone to take care of me, I didn’t need someone older, I didn’t need someone to teach me the ways of the world.

I needed attention.

I needed validation.

Let me correct that: I need them. Present tense.

My background is cookie-cutter. My father was never around for months at a time due to his job. In the first eight years of my life, I rarely saw him for more than a week at a time every few months.

After that, my father got a normal 9–5 gig so he could be home every day. But the damage was already done. I didn’t know who he was. It was weird to have this guy suddenly try to lay down the law as if he were…my father.

Almost immediately, he got sucked into religion. He transferred his absence because of work to an absence because of religion. My dad practically lived at the mosque. His presence was only noticed when my life was full of religious rules, like not wearing shorts or listening to music.

Yeah, like that’s not going to eff a young girl up.

I thought I married the opposite of my dad. Someone who was artistic and all heart. In the end, it didn’t matter. Joseph was never home due to work (the first time we had a week of consecutive dinners together was during the pandemic, after seventeen years of marriage). He paid more attention to the TV than to me. The masseuses who gave him happy endings got more validation about their sexual prowess than I ever did.

My ex-husband wasn’t an anomaly. In my teens and early twenties, I assumed no guy would ever like me for me. I was too different. I wasn’t worthy of attention. I wasn’t like all the cookie-cutter girls around me (white, Christian, and allowed to wear shorts).

I had sex (twice) with a guy who talked about his supermodel ex-girlfriend immediately after sex. Why did I stick around? Why? Even when he told me that he just wanted “fun” and “nothing serious”, why did I stick around despite wanting more? Why?

Answer: because I took his scraps of attention. He was good-looking and I wanted someone to one day talk about me the way he talked about his ex-girlfriend. I craved that validation.

You, Dear Reader, are rightfully thinking that everything I’ve sought from a male I needed to find within myself, blah blah. That’s not how it works without therapy or a yoga retreat.

After my divorce, I wasn’t much better. My brain knew my body was moderately better than most women my age (hurray for surgery) but there’s this whole thing called beauty and personality. Two things I didn’t trust were good enough.

That’s what it boils down to.

I want to be enough.

I want to be pretty enough. I want to be fit enough. I want to be thin enough. I want to be smart enough. I want to be pretty enough. I want to be funny enough.

But I also don’t want to be too much.

I don’t want to be too bitchy. I don’t want to be too weird. I don’t want to be too different. I don’t want to be too picky. I don’t want to be too smelly. I don’t want to be too snarky. I don’t want to be too unclassy. I don’t want to be too blunt. I don’t want to be too autistic. I don’t want to be too logical. I don’t want to be too rigid. I don’t want to be too ugly. I don’t want to be too unfun.

I’ve dated so many guys since my divorce and despite them wanting more of me, it never met the need I have for attention, validation…to be enough. Thankfully, I’m not naive anymore. They, too, were not enough.

It’s been five months with Jeremy. He’s so frickin’ amazing. I like him. A lot. My adoration has put him on a pedestal; one that no mere mortal should ever be on.

I find myself manipulating ways for him to not dump me, in case that’s his plan. After all, he hasn’t called me his girlfriend and my insecurities restrain me from asking.

I lent him an extra Christmas tree I had in my garage, figuring that meant he had to continue seeing me until January.

I made him and his kids (no, I haven’t met them) custom ornaments under the guise of being a thoughtful crafting nerd. In reality, if Jeremy ever dumps me, he will always think of me in December when he puts up his tree.

For his Christmas gift, I got him an event experience for the end of January. That forces Jeremy to continue dating me until the start of February.

I do all of this because I don’t feel like I’m enough and he’ll realize it. He’s oblivious and probably has no intention of ending things as often as my insecurities tell me he will.

We’re both traveling for a few weeks for the holidays. When I texted about an issue in my garage that needs fixing, he replied, “just tighten it with a screwdriver and I’ll fix it when I get back.” I was elated. Not about my garage getting fixed, but because that meant he intended on coming over again in the future.

Do I sound like an insecure, crazy lady? Yes. Yes, I do.

Thankfully, I know how to seem chill. I know to refrain from texting endlessly because, unlike some guys, he’s not the type to message all day. I know to keep my social life active and let him know that I have outside interests. I know not to constantly ask if he’s free and let him come to me.

Unintentionally, I’ve put Jeremy on a cult-leader status like thousands of women did with Hugh Hefner. Jeremy is fueling the things that I should be able to provide for myself. My brain thinks irrationally while putting him on an unrealistic pedestal of perfection. I think about him constantly, more than anyone should after months of dating because I can’t cool my limerance-filled thoughts.

I wish I could say that acknowledging everything is helping me realize my worth. Unfortunately, divorce is both a blessing and a curse. While I feel moderately better about myself as a human being, I feel like the worst mother on earth. And choosing my own humanity over motherhood makes me feel like a selfish asshole.

It’s not like I was being beaten or verbally assaulted every day. Maybe I could have suffered a few years longer for their sake. I will never, ever feel like I’m a good enough mother because I opted to split their world in half.

Does all of this boil down to my dad? Maybe. I think if both of my parents had taught me that I was enough, instead of having an absent father and a hyper-critical mother, I wouldn’t continue the cycle on my own.

Perhaps, in 2023, I should focus on giving myself the attention and validation I desperately crave and sought from men.

I don’t know where to begin.