Session 5 – Dear Father – Part 2

A summer drive away from dying: a broken heart nothing to lose.
I know it hurts so bad just trying to please the ones you hate to love.
And I wrote this note about someone I used to know
so I’d remember how life can be so short when your left alone to wonder
how it is someone opens and shuts the door.

I know you’re cold but come home.
It’s a shame how short we all have come

 

Headlights by The Classic Crime

 

He wanted to hear his parents say they were proud of him. That’s what I came away from tonight’s session with. The desperate longing to hear the two people who are supposed to show you how to live life tell you they are proud of the choices you’ve made. I’ve always wanted to hear Bruce tell me that. But tonight it flipped.

Tonight, for the first time, I realized he has been waiting his entire life to hear his mom and dad say, “I’m proud of you.” To this day he is pouring his life into making them proud. He just turned 70.

That’s tough. Damn near impossible. Bruce did the best he knew how. What is most difficult about this idea is that he never pursued a better path. He never saw that his best wasn’t best. He may still have no idea he was wrong.

Sadness flows over me. I’ve spent so much time being frustrated with him. Disappointed with the way he treated me. I had all these pictures in my mind of how things should have been. Polaroids that never happened. Never will happen. And yet I still felt like the past could be changed. I clung to these images, false memories, hoping they’d become truth. That suddenly my dad would take me under his wing, after my first baseball game, and say, “You did great. Let’s help you get even better.” But I had to let it go. I had to release this impossible vision of my childhood. The images melted away. Boiled down to nothing. And that’s when it all became clear.

He’s hurting. He’s frustrated and saddened by the same hurt I grew up with. Worse. He didn’t even have the encouragement from his mom. She sent the same negative messages his way. And they were doing the best they could. This cold, vicious line of confusion and pain in parenting led to my life. He couldn’t break the cycle. He didn’t know how. He pushed his impossible standards, his frustration, his disappointment on us. His beautiful, impressionable children. The pain pushed deep. Our pain cycled around to become his pain again. It fed into my mother.

I’ve been asked many times by my family to enter back into his life. He needs me. He needs us. I want to help. I want to help heal his festering wounds. But I am more than just myself. I have a family. An incredible wife who has encouraged me and pushed me to break the cycle. I have two amazing toddlers that if I don’t put an end to this seemingly endless destruction of family, they will suffer my same fate. I truly don’t own him anything. I don’t own him my time. I don’t own him my attention. And through this, I can actually care for him.

I made the terrible assumption I hated him. That I was angry about my childhood. I have no anger. I have no hate. Those were the only words I knew for how I felt. But the more I dig, the more I explore, I only find sadness. For him. I love him. I care for him. That doesn’t mean I have to let his hurt consume my world.

I had put my father on a pedestal. I don’t even know how. I don’t remember looking up to him. I don’t remember thinking he was the best and I wanted to be like him. But there are other kinds of pedestals. Every little boy puts their dad up there. And it is only a matter of time until he comes down. I assumed I had obliterated this one a while ago. But I’ve been keeping him there. Hoping. Praying. Wishing something would change. All would be fixed. But he’s come down now. And not the giant, crashing drop I assumed it would be. It was a gentle, methodical deconstruction of the tower I’d put him in. He’s human. He sins. He hurts. He feels. Like me.

I don’t admire him. Honestly, I don’t respect him. These thoughts used to bring a lot of guilt with them. I’m opening up to a new way of thinking. And here I land. Solidly, perfectly in my body. Grounded. I am not he. I love him. I don’t respect him. I want to help him. I will break the cycle.

Session 4 – Dear Father – Part 1

Dear father, forgive me
‘Cause in your eyes, I just never added up
In my heart I know I failed you
But you left me here alone

If I could hold back the rain
Would you numb the pain
‘Cause I remember everything
If I could help you forget
Would you take my regrets
‘Cause I remember everything

 

Remember Everything by Five Finger Death Punch

 

I find myself in the song. Which is ironic, considering I remember nothing. I’ve been told that your brain files away your memories until you’re ready to deal with them. And here I am, on the verge of opening Pandora’s box.

I don’t know what to say about my father. I was asked tonight in my latest session to describe him. His characteristics, sins, faults, weaknesses, strengths. I drew a blank. I’ve spent the last 3 years excluding my dad from any piece of my life. Let’s start with some background.

My mother took my sisters and I to Colorado because she feared him. Emotionally. Mentally. He had never physically harmed her, but the emotional abuse was too much for her to take. She feared for her life. I’ve felt the emotional abuse from him before, but never on that level. And up until a couple years ago, I thought he left us. After all, he left the house first. Packed up and moved back in with his parents at the ripe age of 49. I was 7. And that, is my first true memory.

We were forced to talk on the phone with our dad every Sunday, for at least an hour. I hated Sundays. Instead of coming home from church, reading the comics, and lounging about all day, I had to prep. Prepare for the hardest, most emotional time of my life. I would often just stop talking when that hour hit until he asked me to pass to phone on to one of my sisters. I remember bits and pieces of these conversations. Every week during school it was the same thing. Unless my grade was 100%, he would spend the next hour telling me how I failed completely because I didn’t study enough. If I had actually cared about school I would have studied to make sure I got every question right. The problem is, he was right. But I had this insane desire. A longing. Friends. I wanted friends. I wanted to be a kid. Play sports. Ride bikes. Laugh and play with other people my age.

Bruce came to live in Colorado for a while. Claimed he wanted to be near us. But when the weather didn’t clear up his “illnesses” he decided to move back to Illinois. I was 11. And this is the first time I truly saw my dad as the manipulative liar he is. He took me out to talk. Asked if I wanted big fries or small fries. I had never had fast food in my life, and I longed to try French Fries. So in my childlike innocence, I shouted with all the glee of a 3-year-old, “Big!” Enter KFC. Potato Wedges. Which leads to a new half-hour lecture about how unhealthy French Fries are and I should never eat them. Which is why he chose the ever-healthy KFC.

He then proceeds to talk about our future. Of how when he gets back to Illinois, he is going to file for divorce. Because he is tired of living alone. Because my mom won’t come to her senses and move back in with him. How he is going to file for custody of me because my mom knows nothing of how to raise a son. Unlike him. Mr. Perfect. The man with all the answers. My savior.

I then go back home, shaking. Trembling because I must prepare myself for some time in the next couple of years when I will be ripped from my family, friends, everything I know, to go live with an asshole who will raise me to be just like him. My dream of dreams. And I wait.

For years I wait. Expecting this to happen at any time. But it never comes. No divorce. No custody battle. No update. And yet I continue to talk to this wretched man every week. And then it happens.

But it’s not what you think. I grew up. I realized I didn’t have to talk to this man. I longed for a relationship with him. I longed to make him proud. I had foolishly continued to share my successes with him. I was shipped off to spend a couple weeks with him each year. Weeks filled with failed attempts to play catch. Hours spent listening to lectures on the hazards of listening to rock music. For what? Why did I continue to pour my soul out to him? So I cut back. I didn’t talk to him every week. I didn’t share my entire life. I shoved my feelings down deep. I created vague answers. Life turned from color to grey.

Life changed. I made friends. I was less angry. On the surface. When I shoved my feelings away to get through an hour with him, I learned to shut my feelings out in all my life. I became less like myself. I formed a deep-seated depression. Curse words became more prevalent in my thoughts. I let the hurt and anger fester. Bury itself deep within. My entire life became a lie. I felt no emotion.

I wore masks. I knew exactly how to fake love. Care. Happiness. I even fooled myself. I thought it was all real. But all I felt was anger. Sadness. The overwhelming urge to cry. But no. I couldn’t let myself cry. Men don’t cry. Men don’t feel sadness. Christians don’t feel sadness. Joy. Only joy.

I soon stopped talking to Bruce on Sundays. I spoke with him occasionally, typically on holidays. And not for very long. Just enough to appease my mother’s desire for us to have a relationship. I’m not sure she ever realized how dysfunctional it was. My sisters would often curl up in their beds and cry for hours after speaking with him. But I showed no emotion. I never spoke of such things. I think she actually believed we had a relationship.

Over the years I’ve tried to mend my relationship with that man. To this day I still long to have a loving relationship. To be able to call him for advice. To learn how to be a real man from him. I went to college in Missouri. Only 6 hours from him. He hadn’t come to my high school graduation. He’d come when both of my sisters had graduated. But I justified it. That had been years earlier. He went to my sister’s college graduation. The same year I graduated high school. But I justified that too. She was in Missouri after all. That is much closer than Colorado. So I traveled far away for college. I had hopes of reconciliation. I visited him on the short holidays. 3-day weekends. And each one was just as painful as those summers growing up. And then came graduation day. No dad…

He claimed he had to stay in Illinois to help mow the yard. Sure, large farm yard. Takes a full day on a riding mower. But for your son’s only college graduation? Ok, maybe he doesn’t care. But I still tried. I still believed it could change.

I had met a girl while in college. A girl from back home. I was in love. I proposed. I called my dad to tell him. I don’t remember him saying congratulations. We spent 25 minutes of that 30-minute call talking about his health and fixing the lawn mower. I remember him asking why he hadn’t met her yet. I invited him to our wedding. He couldn’t come. He didn’t think his health would allow it. 3 years later we find out we’re having a child. I call him. I joyfully, excitedly tell him. He starts talking about logistics. It’s his way of showing he cares. Of dispatching wisdom. But there is no joy in his voice. No excitement. For his first grandchild. But ok, I decide to give him time.

My sister gets engaged. She plans her wedding for September. The month before our daughter is to be born. He comes. Because it is an important life event. He wants to be there for his child. We speak. It is more pleasant than usual. I have a greater hope that things will change.

Our daughter is born. Our beautiful baby girl. I call him. With more joy than I have ever felt in my life. I want to share the most incredible and exciting news with him. We then have a conversation for the next half-hour about why our name choice is ridiculous. How she will hate us for the rest of her life because of our name choice. He gives a list of names that we should change it to. I hang up.

And that is the last time I spoke to my dad.

So now we’re back at today. There I am, sitting on a couch. Thinking of how to describe this man who has hurt me so deeply that I’m afraid of exploring who I am. I want to dive in. I’m ready to dive it. And I’m terrified.

Selfish. Caring. In his own way. Lazy. Hard-working. In his own way. Jackass. Hurtful. Arrogant. Fake. Conceited. Did I say hurtful? Sad. Lost.

I hate him. I love him. I cry for him. I long for him. I need him. But I have shut him out of my life. The moment he decided to spend his time ridiculing my daughter’s name, that is the moment I had to act. I would not allow him into my daughter’s life. I would not allow him to hurt her the way he has hurt me. To destroy the life of my wife and daughter. I would not let him touch their hearts. He can be a fun man to be around. But when you let him in, shit gets real. You see the hurt in him. You see the pain passed down from generations before him. I want desperately to have him be a part of my life. But I will not choose to put my family at risk. He has shown over and over again he will hurt us.

I have spent my life trying to not be like him. Petrified to move forward in life from the fear of being his duplicate. His disciple. Ignoring my own life, my own desires, because I’m afraid they may be similar to his. Denying myself the pleasure of knowing who I am. Of pursuing my own hopes and dreams. Of making my own decisions because they might turn out to be his decisions. No more. Tonight, it ends. Tonight, I become.

Tonight, I am.