Many Me's

I remember those days when I was little and my Dad would tell me I was the prettiest little girl in the world. I believed him because he was my Dad and why would he lie to me and of course I was.  OF COURSE I was the prettiest girl in the world.  Until I found out I totally wasn’t.  Far from it.  This was crushing if only because the reality was delivered by that super cute boy who called me an ugly fart face. Stupid Rudy Sarchuk.

Anyway.

Whether I was the prettiest girl in the world in actuality didn’t really matter because my Dad thought I was.  That’s all that really mattered.  To be fair, my Dad didn’t spend his days building my ego to epic delusional proportions, he was being a Dad with his little girl.  It was pretty awesome, even though after those little girl days it took him almost 30 years to call me pretty again.  I guess, in a way, that’s pretty awesome too.

Anyway.

I’m thinking now what would have happened if my Dad was telling other girls that they, too, were the prettiest girls in the world.  Finding out that it was no longer just me.  I wasn’t the only one. I wasn't special or any great shakes.  In fact, there were many me's.  Monumentally crushing is what it would be.  

Dads would never do this, but other people can.  They have the power to build you into  something special and just like that beat it right back out of you.  You’re not all that smart or fun or pretty or special – did you really think you were?  You’re just like everyone else.  You?  Ha.  As.  If.  I suppose how much power these people yield depends on how much power we give them.  It only matters if they matter to us.  But they always matter to us.  That’s why it hurts.  Not because it’s true, because, really, we are all nothing special, but because we would all like to be something special for someone at some point.  But if there’s no vice there’s no versa.  So for every Dad, there’s a Rudy Sarchuk. It just seems these days there are far too many fucking Rudy Sarchuks.