How's my kid?

I haven't spoken to my daughter since she left. Father's Day and my birthday have passed without her attempting to contact me (aside from a text message from her mother's cell phone asking for something her mother wanted, allegedly from my daughter). I am not hurt by the lack of contact, but I am disappointed.

I know her head is in a place right now where she doesn't give a fig what's going on with me, and I accept that. I was pretty up in my own head at her age, although I think she's taken emotional unavailability to a drastic new level. Where the teenage me had built an emotional moat and wished someone would cross it, she's built an island fortress, complete with surface-to-air missiles and chemical warheads and declared war on all who would trespass, but hey, you say potato, I say po-tah-to.

All I'm saying is that I think I can grasp the idea that hurt causes people to flinch away, and enough hurt over time can cause a flinch that looks more like an Iron Man Triathelete Competition. I haven't called her for a few reasons: one, because my inner child is bruised by her withdrawal. Also, because I really don't think she wants to hear from me, and the socially awkward exchanges are too much, including the ham-handed and obligatory "I love you and miss you's" that are passed so woodenly that you'd think Pinocchio's zombie corpse was on the line. I figure, why put her through that? Hell, why put me through that?

On the other hand: "Wow, nice example, Dad." If I can't stick it out once in a while and make a mildly difficult effort, what good am I? It's like that old saying: "When the going gets tough, the tough get inaccessible and apathetic." I can do a little better than that, I guess.

Still, an e-mail or a phone call would have been nice. My inner child is never too far from my outer asshole, and the two are in constant communication. Throw the kid a bone.