Donald Trump Is My Dad

Donald Trump Is My Dad

by Ariana Seigel

No. I’m not one of Trump’s potentially infinite illegitimate kids. Though at this point – would anyone be surprised by an op-ed claiming as much?

No, Trump isn’t technically my dad. But if you’ve ever met my dad, then you’ve basically met Donald Trump: an undiagnosed Narcissist, prone to fits of violence, delusions of grandeur, black and white thinking, with a pension for sexualizing his daughter.

Growing Up With a Narcissist

Since 2015 it’s been a deep source of shame, seeing a parent so accurately reflected on a national stage, watching as America becomes traumatized by the maddening chaos and endless gaslighting I’ve experienced my whole life.

So I’m sending out the Bat Signal.

To those of you who see the face of a parent in our Commander in Chief: you’re not alone. I am one of you. And I am sorry.

To everyone else: the trauma you’re experiencing from our President is real. The superpower of a Narcissist is believing in their madness so deeply it makes you question your sense of reality. And once you start doing that, the ground begins to float away and nothing makes sense. Again, I am sorry.

The superpower of a Narcissist is believing in their madness so deeply it makes you question your sense of reality. Click To Tweet

Bat Signal #1: Were You Also Sexualized By A Parent?

I remember walking home after the first day of my first real TV writing job. I remember eagerly calling my dad to share the fact that my bosses were super excited to have me and my writing partner’s voice on the team. But mostly that the writer’s room had ENDLESS bagels.

My dad’s response: What were you wearing?

Because of course, my value is not that I’m not an intelligent daughter WHO’S SPENT 12 YEARS DOING COMEDY IN SHITTY BASEMENTS TO BATTLE HER WAY TO INTO A WRITER’S ROOM.

I am a pretty object to be admired. I am not my own human. I’m an extension of the Narcissist’s ego. Because a “hot” daughter is a successful father. And while living in a female body means you pay the terrible tax of the world’s sexualization, you don’t expect it to come from the person who made you.

Don’t be mistaken, my dad has been commenting on my body since I got my period. Which is probably why I went into comedy – a place where the grotesque and weird were weighted over the slick and beautiful. If I donned my converse and black leather jacket, I wouldn’t be a BODY. I’d be a very funny talking brain that just HAPPENED to be attached to a body.

Bat Signal #2: Did You Also Experience Random Violent Outbursts – Followed by Denial // Gaslighting?

The weird thing about knowing a parent is capable of killing you or your family is that you find a strange inner acceptance of death at a very young age.

The weird thing about knowing a parent is capable of killing you or your family is that you find a strange inner acceptance of death at a very young age. Click To Tweet

I remember being 10 years old. In the car. Dad is screaming that he’ll drive the car off the road and kill us all. Why? Mom suggested an alternate route. And at that moment, I imagined the car flying through the air. Going towards a light. All of us. Then fade to black. No matter. 5th grade had been great. Of course, I’d miss my friends: arts and crafts nights, biking to 7/11 for blue Slurpees – but it had been a good run and I had made my peace with the end.

The rest of my family doesn’t remember this happening. Probably because there were so many moments like this. The time he threw a mug through our glass doors, shattering them into a million pieces. The time he pushed my mom and we locked ourselves in her office, wondering if it was even safe to call the police.

But then. Magically. Within seconds. Dad would enter the room as if nothing had happened at all. He’d suggest maybe we all just needed a snack. Or a group hug.

And life went on.

Bat Signal 3: Have You Also Been Forced To Completely Cut Contact?

Strangely enough, this has been the hardest. In the way that soldiers fantasize about going back to war – even though they watched their friends get blown up – there was something oddly comforting about the abusive cycle. I lived for those brief, wondrous moments of calm with Dad. A hug when I didn’t get the part in a school play. How much he loved to throw a good party – something I definitely inherited. Even putting me in his phone as “Princess Jabubu” – a silly nickname for his kid who was Jewish but now exploring Buddhism.

Not being able to hate your abuser, especially when it’s a parent, is the worst part. Because people are fucking complicated. And more than just one thing. And that’s hard for a brain to contain.

And although Trump is a true Malignant Narcissist, I still feel bad for him. Because when this is all said and done, he’s going to die alone. Truly alone. No wealth. No family.

And my greatest fear is that my dad will too.

Epiloge

After a year of no-contact, the rest of my family is doing great. We’ve been lucky enough to afford extensive therapy, separate and as a new family unit. We got a puppy. We’ve released a ton of anger and grief – and talk every day. Mostly about the dog. Because she is pure kindness, empathy, and joy.