Fathers be good to your daughters...

This is the first attempt at a story that could fill volumes. It is with great courage, and not without fear that I begin to tell this tale.

The most challenging thing about moving is losing superficial comfort. In the absence of being surrounded by things that can in some ways soothe you - the presence of a friend who understands, a hug from someone who cares, the relaxation of a flavour or place that just feels familiar- you realize just how uncomfortable you are in your own skin.

Some days, my discomfort excites me as I realize that it makes me reach harder, further, faster to establish myself in my newly-proclaimed home. But on some days, it wears uncomfortably upon me like a wool sweater on a warm day, yet here there is no way to simply shed a layer, release and relax. Yet somehow, stewing deep in discomfort, you find pieces of yourself, reflections deep at the bottom of the pool you knew were there, but had never seen.


In recent weeks the right set of circumstances has lead me to a realization years in the making. The overwhelming loneliness of moving to a new city, accompanied by the still enduring pain of past relationship circumstances, left me craving love, yet unable to fall vulnerable to it.

For the first time I realized that I didn't want some love affair but what I craved was the embrace of a man who unconditionally loved me, a voice on the phone that wanted to hear what I needed to say, and was willing to stay and tell me everything would be okay. I wanted someone willing to hold me, I wanted my dad.

But our relationship has never been such.

Growing up, no one really knew the story of my dad and I. I didn't tell my friends, I didn't write it in my journal nor did I admit it to myself. Instead, I was known as Boy-Crazy-Barb: swept up in the next object of desire. And in some ways, many things have not changed.

I never understood why I was so different about relationships than the girls around me. I loved with a vengeance diving head first into any love, committing myself fiercely to every man who showed some reciprocation of the wildly flaming feelings.

While my passion has lead to some beautiful interludes and affairs, it has also lead to some devastating heartaches. In therapy, my therapist made the connection quickly, I seek men like my father for the familiarity of how I was used to feeling on some level I myself believe that I seek a man like him so that I can succeed where I failed with him, and make a man just like him love me.

It has been hard in the last few years working in the same industry and at the same studios as my Dad, Everywhere I turned people were willing and eager to lecture me about how I should feel and act. I hardly blame them, for the image they saw was one of a charismatic, interesting, personable and intelligent man, different and perhaps quirky but one who cared so much for all his students and the yoga he loved.

And then the element of yoga itself, this discipline of self-understanding, righteous, noble and moral action. How could my colleagues keep quiet when seeing a young 20-something girl, who didn't talk to such an interesting father who cared so much. So I was lectured by more folks than one can imagine, told to be quiet and stop spreading false truths by teachers I admired and respected, and all the while I listened and kept mum.

"Fathers be good to your daughters..."

No one knew, not about the long, forked-tongue lashings that were routine, not about my mothers shaking hands and anorexic frame,not about my stoic brother's tears, not about the dark shadow that could emerge from the bright colorful man he was known to be. They didn't know that at my high-school graduation I broke down with violent tears when my dad walked in the door because I didn't believe that he would show. More importantly, they didn't know how much I loved him.

"Daughters will love like you do..."

When I was 5, and he asked how much I loved him I was tormented by the fact that my little arms weren't wide enough to show him the distance. I would close my eyes and imagine that my arms would leave the earth, go farther than the moon, than Jupiter, Saturn, Pluto and the stars, only then would I feel I had shown him enough. That love, so big and wide, is still within me. But my skin has had to toughen to protect from the blows.

Every missed dance performance, un-soothed broken heart, cancelled father-daughet date. Every angry voicemail, every hour long scolding for how horrible of a child I was, every time I heard he was disgusted with who I was, every time I saw a destaining look in his eyes when he looked upon me, I was hardened. My hardness and hurt began to mount to the point that I couldn't talk anymore. Only when I stopped talking, I started succeeding, and he, standing to gain from the light of congratulation, changed his tune.

And so when my colleagues saw him applauding at a competition or performance, they thought, "Wow, what pride," not knowing that applause came only with medallions and acclaim. When I was young and struggling, when I was getting my heart broken, when no one was there to witness, there was nothing but empty space, not a shoulder to cry on, not a supportive hand to help.

I realize now that this is part of the reason I wear my failures, my slip ups and trip ups harder than the rest. When I exist without achievement I feel as if I am wasting time, energy and worth. Somehow the absence of the one person I loved larger than the universe itself convinced me that without achievement, I wasn't worthy of love. What's worse, is that not only did I believe I wasn't worthy of love from others, but I didn't see myself worthy of self love.

"Girls become lovers..."

I realize that in the absence of that unconditional love I searched for it else where. Between the sheets of one night interludes, or the minutes of three week romances, or multi-month loves I searched for that feeling of validation, for that look in someone's eyes that denoted pride, love, compassion and support.

I suppose that what I had yet to realize is that it wasn't just Dad's love that was missing it was my own. What has been missing over the years is my own voice telling me that I am loved, that I am worthy, that I am enough just as I am, without achievement without success without accolade or praise.

"That turn into mothers...."

But I am working on it. After hours in a small green therapist's den, reading and researching, writing and weeping I am slowly -still have a way to go- finding my peace. For the first time in my life I have moved beyond resentment, frustration and outrage and begun to feel sadness and mourn the passing of a father's presence from my life.

In coming to slowly understanding him, his struggles and his pain has helped me ben thankful, as I realize that my love for this man has made me.

Seeking to right the wrongs in his life, to love him back to life - will make me a better journalist as I seek to finally right some injustice in the world.

Learning to accept who he truly is - will make me more compassionate a woman, a journalist, a lover, a mother, a friend, and daughter.

Acknowledging the gifts he gave me - will help me soar father than I ever thought possible.

Seeking to achieve and to feel worthy - is why I WILL live in New York, doing what I love and dream to do.

Knowing how his hand, tongue and absence effected me - will make me forever want to give back, to women, to girls and make sure that my children will not suffer the same way at the hands of me or their father.

"So mothers be good to your daughters too."