My generation has grown to fear the thank you. It rests between our lips, wrestling with our tongue, falling into the cavity self doubt that can never be filled.
My experience — just like all the girls whose fathers were the first men to leave them — is complex. It has ridges and laughs and fires, but too many men reduce it into a simple phrase. My autobiography in his mouth was two words: daddy issues. If I wanted a guy to stay, I had to be ashamed of them.
We make snap judgments on people and throw them into demographics. Being labelled straight protected me from prejudice, encouraging me to conform to it. I locked myself in a closet full of dresses.