No Fix Zone

In high school and into my twenties I got a lot of play out of being the wise, protective father figure for shameless hussies with soft boundaries and a burning resentment for the absent/s.o.b. father. As long as she’d get nekkid and dance the horizontal bop with me I was down for being a great listener and offering my pop-psych wisdom. Most of it was utter bulls*&t. But, if it got me into her pants, I didn’t care.
Them in my readership that are or have been part of the Twelve Step Fellowship will recognize this as good old codependency. The girls had to be ok in the manner I wanted them to be ok so that I could get into their pants. I thought the surest path into those pants was their pain. I attempted to fill the God-sized hole where Daddy might have been but wasn’t. This was fine for a while. There were enough willing girls who would play along that I did ok for a bit.
The women and their Daddy issues would creep into the conversation and I became the evil s.o.b. by proxy. All that was unforgiven with Daddy was suddenly my fault. Since I also had a big ball of resentment regarding my parents it was a serious problem to lose my status as victim in her eyes and be cast as the bad guy. Next, they’d figure out that all my pseudo-psych blather I thought was brilliant advice was just the words written on wind and water of another hormonal guy with the usual goatish things on his mind. It stops being sexy after a bit that the reason I was so willing to listen is because I was still angling for what was in her pants.
Now? If you got issues, good on you. So do I. More than a few issues, if you’ve read much of this blog. I’ve got enough just dealing with my own crap much less someone else’s. I’ll happily commiserate with someone and be empathetic. But I ain’t giving no advice nor trying to fix what ails ya. Preaching verses sharing, for the Recovery crowd. I share, I don’t preach (much).
Besides, the answer that worked for me wasn’t more therapy or more words about what was wrong with my Dad or Mom (not a lot, actually). It was stuff I’d learned in Sunday School and has been taught by disciples of the Way for a couple thousand years—love God, love neighbors and enemies, serve the Lord and through that, serve our neighbors so that we become salt and light to a broken world. Not news, and so not innovative or new. Stuff most of us have heard in one form or another much of our lives. That my Dad is mortal, that he has flaws, is a reflection of his humanity and God’s incredible grace. It says nothing about him as a father.
I know, I know, creepy sumbitch I was. Violent & abusive for a time, too. For some, the best place for me is under the outhouse in the dung pit amid the flies and mosquitos. Key phrase: I was. To repeat, these days, her mess is hers. Mine is mine. We can be in relationship but a boundary needs to be respected take care of your own stuff and let me and God worry about mine. The good news is, my friends today feel the same way.