Shared Dad

Before I get too far into being paired with Kent during those teenage years, I think it's important to go back a little further. I always had to share my Dad, he was never completely focused on me and even when we had "quality time" together, it always felt like it was for appearances sake. My Dad was a minister, so I knew early in life that his parishioners came first. The fact I even existed seemed like some form of demonstration that he'd followed a path that made his family "normal." He was always off meeting with parishioners, people in need, of course, but he wasn't the type of father that I wanted. And when I was eight years old, my mother felt the same way and she carried me off into the unknown. We were destitute and she worked odd jobs as a secretary until a drunken farmer took us in. He was an attentive father and gave me a home where I participated in the care and feeding of the farm animals. But yes, he was a drunk, too. His kids accepted me into the family graciously and I looked up to them and loved them, too. But after my "real" Dad remarried, he invited me to "visit" his new family, where I stood out as a "hick" and was completely overwhelmed with the new environment. This was when my step-father had a horrible accident on the farm and I was thrust into living in the city, with this family I didn't fit into, for the indeterminate future.

So, in my youth, I think this set me up to feel like the doormat everyone walked on. I was extremely talented, but when I had multiple opportunities to be in the limelight, I couldn't do it. I didn't think I could survive the criticism, or maybe I didn't think I was good enough. Either way, I know... no, I knew... I didn't deserve it, because I was so selfish about needing my Dad. He was supposed to be MY Dad.

This sounds like a sad story, but I can assure you, it's really not. This blog is about the journey from this shy, skinny, homely girl to a strong, smart, and slightly socially awkward business woman. This is my therapy, and you are welcome to join in. I "googled" the word "doormat" once, and found tens of thousands of posts about women who, at some point in their life, felt like a doormat. So this blog is, most importantly, dedicated to any woman whose been a doormat, even just once in her life.

Hick Meets Chic

When this 12-year old, skinny, bean-pole hit the city, I felt a dread like no other. Granted, the visit was supposed only be for a few days. But the morning we found all of my stuff on the front porch of the city house, we knew there was no going back to the farm. But this is not your normal "rags to riches" story. This is about moving from an environment where people are supposed to fit into traditional molds, to something alien to me. Suddenly, I had two new step brothers and a step sister. It's one thing to have these new people in our distant family, quite another to be living in a household where the mother was a strong, sassy working woman, and one brother was an artistic soul. Oh, and we were the same age.

So, I spent my teenage years paired with Kent in school, in band, and in our first jobs. Thirty years later, this blog is my journey to become my own person, and escaping being his doormat in my teenage years.