The Philosophy of a Functioning Dysfunction

As an anxious person, biting my nails has always been a light appetizer. But lately, I’ve traded them for something more substantial: chewing on the inside of my cheek until it bleeds and shaking my legs like I’m charging my anxiety through kinetic energy. I’m always on edge. (Like I always say, I’m already edging on life no need for more, if you catch my drift.)

And yet, amid the existential twitching and emotional turbulence, I have my rituals of calm. My sacred, slightly questionable method of serenity? Watching divorced dads take care of their kids.

It’s not sexual, not exactly(I am lying). It’s emotional caffeine. There’s something tender almost holy about a man packing a lunchbox with that lost, “where-does-the-juice-box-go” expression. A man who has known love, known loss, and now just wants to braid his daughter’s hair right this time. The older the better. (Forgive me, dear reader, but a girl is ovulating. Hormones have a sense of humor.)

I’ve always had what people politely call “an old soul.” What they don’t realize is that I also have an equally old crush radius. Give me crow’s feet, a slight limp, and a custody battle; I will write poetry. If he’s left-handed, even better. There’s something poetic about it like the universe made him backwards just to see how the rest of us would react. I don’t know what it is about left-handed men, but they look like they’ve suffered in lowercase italics. And that’s hot.

Of course, society doesn’t understand this level of nuance. Whenever I joke about loving divorced single dads, people stare like I’ve confessed to clubbing baby seals. God forbid a woman admits she would absolutely rock being a stepmom. As if stepmothers haven’t been rehabilitating lost causes since Cinderella’s mom died. The double standard is exhausting, men can have “daddy issues,” but when a woman develops an affection for actual daddies, it’s suddenly pathology.

My tendency to be a creepy stalker, I believe, started young. You see, dear reader, I rarely got out of the classroom. The only time they forced us out was during afternoon games, when they’d lock the doors to prevent theft. I hated that, being herded into the sunlight like cattle. So, to cope, I became a spectator. I’d “people-watch.”(This is just an excuse teehee).

How do I put this delicately? My friends and I would spy on 9th graders flirting with 11th graders, standing in corners talking for hours. We’d try to lip-read, or worse, make up what they were saying. It was hilarious. That’s how voyeurism links with imagination, and somehow it becomes storytelling. Maybe that’s where writing began for me(no it didn't) from watching other people live their lives because I was too scared to live mine.

So here I am, a dysfunctional girl masquerading as a writer. A girl who grew into a messy adult and decided that was fine. Acceptance, they say, is the first step toward peace. (I’m in therapy ✨✨ though, to be honest, I can only see my therapist 👀.)

However dysfunction is not the disease. Denial is. We live in a world where people brand chaos as “quirky,” trauma as “character development,” and disconnection as “self-care.” We’re told to be healed, centered, glowing like we’re all auditioning for some ethereal version of adulthood. Meanwhile, I’m over here chewing my inner cheek and analyzing a man’s divorce decree like it’s foreplay.

Maybe that’s the philosophy of it the art of being self-aware but refusing to improve. To look at yourself and go, Yes, I’m the problem, but also the vibe.

And if that means finding comfort in watching left-handed, emotionally damaged fathers make pancakes while wearing wedding rings they forgot to take off, then so be it. It’s honest. It’s authentic (I feel so pretentious when I use this word.) It’s female desire; the kind that terrifies people because it doesn’t fit into polite brunch conversations.

We’re supposed to want stability, not stubble. A boyfriend, not a backstory. But I want the backstory the scar, the regret, the custody schedule. I want to love someone who already knows that love doesn’t fix you; it just makes the wreckage feel intentional.

So, I’ll keep shaking my legs, biting my cheek, and panic-worshipping every slightly weathered man holding a baby carrier wrong. Because if society gets to romanticize youth, innocence, and purity then let me romanticize wisdom, experience, and men who text their ex to confirm daycare hours.

After all, everyone’s addicted to something. Some people to chaos. Some to hope. Me?To watching a left-handed man pack a lunchbox like he’s assembling an apology.
And honestly, That’s enlightenment enough.