My Super Hero

My dad was a super hero. One weekend out of every month. I’d stand at the end of my windy driveway with my unicorn pillow pet and this hunger to be loved. And after 48 hours, I’d find myself full—full of candy and takeout, full of toys and arcade tokens. Dreading the return to my mother’s house. She lived there 8 hours out of the day. I’d see her on weekends and holidays like my favorite cartoons. She was always so tired, the kind of tired that seeps into the soul, tangling itself in every nerve in the body, draining the life from nose to toes. The feeling radiated, leaving me yawning after every hug. After a month, I was starving again, and my father was there to feed me. He was a super hero, always eager to fill my cup. Every Sunday I was surrendered by my father. It felt like betrayal, still in my church clothes but not righteous enough to stay the week. As I grew, so did my disdain for that woman who lived in the house with me. We’d fight like animals—animals with something to prove. Baring our teeth and growling obscene nonsense back and forth until one of us called mercy in the form of tears and slamming doors. And my father would be waiting at the end of the driveway with chocolate and a hug. Eventually all the takeout, chocolates, and hormones caught up to me. At five foot three inches, I was a whopping hundred seventy pounds. Every photo was the same, with both hands clinging to my stomach, trying to force it back or cover it enough for an illusion of self-control. I stopped dressing like a princess and started stealing clothes from my older brothers. Baggy and sagging, but at least they didn’t cling to my insecurities the way I did.

My dad was a super hero. One Sunday I couldn’t bring myself to wear my Sunday best in public. My father agreed and went without me. He returned to bring me to a diner. I can still feel this moment. I can smell his cologne and his rental car because his new wife wanted it. I stared out the window, dreaming of pancakes and milkshakes and the sweet waiters who called me “baby” and “honey.” “We need to take you shopping,” my father’s voice cut through his country music, but before I could respond, he doubled down. “It’s embarrassing with you in boy clothes. I don’t need people thinking my daughter a dyke.” I could feel what little confidence I had left drain out of me like someone poked a hole in my heel and it was leaking out of me. My throat closed and my face was on fire. I couldn’t stutter out a single word. I always knew my father was harsh, but it just made me crave his approval harder. But he continued, “I know you’ve been self-conscious recently, with everything considered, but this is not the solution.” My father, at a minuscule 400 lbs, was acknowledging my weight issue. I couldn’t squeeze hard enough. All the fat seemed to seep through my arms, bulging, begging to be seen. I wasn’t hungry when we got to the diner.

My dad was a super hero. Eventually my mother moved us far away, and my father moved farther. We were at opposite sides of the country, and once a month turned into once a year during the summer. The longer we spent apart, the harder I clung to his approval. Unaware I’d never receive it. My dad was a super hero, but my mother was the one who picked me up off the bathroom floor and brought me to the hospital and drove two hours everyday to visit me, even when she was met with anger. My dad, a super hero, so it makes sense I can never keep him on the phone for longer than five minutes. I wonder if I’ll ever stop yearning for my father’s attention, or the attention of the men who show me the same half-assed love for a weekend once a month. I wonder if I’ll ever feel confident enough to stop squeezing at things that will never leave. Or accept the fact that even if I kept going to church, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

My dad was a super hero. But as time passed, I couldn’t seem to remember why. Because he’d let us eat junk food? Because he was a parent one weekend out of the month? I always wondered why my brothers stopped visiting him. I couldn’t bring myself to let the old man fade into the night. I didn’t realize he wasn’t on board with the arrangement until he was three thousand miles away. It was much easier to send a check once a month and forget about his second batch of kids while he lived his fantasy with his first batch and his grandkids who still thought of him as super human. My dad was a super hero, because you stop believing in them when you grow up.