The bully in my house

My father ( please read disclaimer ) was a very young guy who had been treated pretty badly in his own upbringing, had a twisted sense of humor, and a severely undeveloped sense of empathy for raising a little girl. He loved to torment me with classic gags like “Quit hitting yourself,” “Does your face hurt?”, and “What have you done for me lately?”.

There was a period in my late twenties when I would breakdown if I heard a dad refer to a little girl by a pet name. Usually something like Princess, or pumpkin, kitten or peanut. I remember the first time it happened. Being completely dumbfounded by this sudden outburst of emotion. Completely out of the blue. In public, having to excuse myself to the restroom, struggling to stifle the sobs until I could be in private.

My father’s nicknames for me were, Knucklehead, Messy Jessy, Nincompoop, or Yum nose. Anytime I spilled or made a mess, if he was in a decent mood, instead of yelling, he’d say, “See, THAT’s why we call you Yum nose.”

I was visiting my parents for Easter as an adult and sat down on their couch with a glass of water. There was no available table, so I set it very carefully on the carpet between my feet. Inevitably, it ended up being tipped, and my father playfully shouted out, “Jessica!” with a grin and a chuckle. As if to say, “Hey kid, remember the old days when you were little and I could humiliate you over every little thing until you cried?”

Haha Yeah good times.