Barbie Shoes

I was never really Daddy's Little Princess, even though he bought me pink, sparkly shoes. They were high-heeled plastic Barbie slippers, and I was eight. Mom was amazed by how a tomboy who ran around in the woods and loved splashing through mud puddles on her mountain bike could take so naturally to walking in high heels. 


He was always a part of my life, but always arms-length away. I can't remember him ever really putting me down or calling me a failure, like I know some people have heard from their fathers. He wasn't absent, but he wasn't there. 


I never danced on his feet at a wedding.


He never picked me up in his arms to kiss away the bruised after I crashed my bike and skinned my.


He wasn't there to protect me when my older cousins threw rocks or attacked me with balls of ice.


He always said, "I love you. You're amazing. I believe in you." 


He was at almost every play or ball game. 


We went out every weekend to go to the movies or the arcade. 


But I always went home without him.


Sometimes I could almost wish for more of the negative father experiences, if only it meant that he had been around more. 


I have this one, very distinct memory of being at his house when I was probably nine or ten. I had accidentally spilled Mountain Dew on the rug while trying to pour myself a drink. I remember exactly what the cup looked like. It was white on the outside with ridges around it, and green on the inside. I remember that there was ice in the cup, the kind you get from an automatic ice maker that's built into a refrigerator. And I remember him shoving napkins toward me and screaming at me, asking, why would I spill soda all over the rug? I remember him yelling at me more because he said I was doing it wrong and I needed to hurry up. I was crying and wailing, but he just kept yelling, and I guess I just kept making it worse until he finally let me stop trying. It was terrorizing. It's ingrained in me, probably forever. And that's the most "normal, father-daughtery" interaction we've ever had. That's sad, and perhaps even more terrifying. 


I became strong and independent, because my defense rested on my own shoulders. 


I became competitive and hardened, keeping others at a distance, and forming friendships in which any close bond was developed because of the other person's vulnerability, and never mine. No one person knew my whole story. I kept myself as fragmented as our impostor of a family was.


So, here you are, trying to know me. And you think that if you ask questions, I'll just answer them and let you in. 


You think that you can learn my nature simply by observing me, but you have no idea how conscious I am of your efforts or how thoroughly I'm prepared to act a part. I've been in character my whole life. 


Do you think I'm a nut you can crack or a puzzle you can solve? Or am I a bomb you are trying to defuse? 


I know what you want. You want to look at someone who looks back at you with curiosity and interest. But I look back at you with fear, hesitation, and doubt. 


You want to get a glimpse of my soul, but you're only pulling off veil after veil like never-ending layers of an onion, never revealing anything except vapor. 


But, no. There's more. 


I know what you really want. 


You want me to let you protect me. 


You want to be there for me and be close. 


You want me to dance on your shoes. 


I'm not ready for that yet. But I guess I could try to start by answering some questions. So there you have it. You asked my why I started crying and sobbing when you called me "Princess."