On Fathers and Father's Day (2015)

As long as I can remember, I've had a complicated relationship with Father's Day.  My dad was a good man, with a lot of issues and as a result, a terrible father.  And then he went and died in a horrible accident when I was 14, which really complicated things, even moreso because I am of Irish stock.  Irish people are afraid to speak ill of the dead.  Try it out sometime.  I guarantee you, any universally abhorred dead person, if you mention him or her to an Irish person, they will find the good and then cross themselves just to be safe.  "Hitler, he certainly had a point of view, now didn't he?  God rest his soul." "Osama Bin Laden sure had a gift for finding the best hiding places.  Saints preserve us."

You get the idea.

It feels wrong to say that, when my father passed, the result of a violent accident that, somewhat ironically given years and years of poor choices, was in no way his fault, I could finally breathe.  When someone you love is struggling, you're always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the phone to ring with the bad news that will surely come, it's just a matter of time.  Sure, I felt sad when he passed, but I also felt some relief - for him and for me and my whole family.

My dad was alcoholic and abusive, unpredictable and violent. 

He was also charming and kind, would give you the shirt off his back, loved music, animals and children.

(Rest in peace.)

After my mother asked him to leave, he showed up at our house when I was in first grade.  He broke the back bedroom window, tried to break down the doors and cut the phone line so we couldn't call for help.  He was a cop and very crafty.  Luckily, our neighbor called the police before we could see how this story ended.  He was taken away in a police car with our beloved dog, Rosie, who insisted on going with him; she loved him more than anyone, seeing his good above all else. 

I'm in my childhood home a lot these days as I spend time with my mother as she nears the end of her own life.  We have lots of conversations we never dared have before.  We've never been a particularly emotional and don't spend a lot of time analyzing or reflecting - better to just keep moving forward.  Lying in the back bedroom the other day, where the window has never been truly fixed, covered instead with a thick plastic, I was reminded of what happened.  Emboldened by the sense that time is running out for me to ask these questions, I stroll into the kitchen to ask my mom whether, if he had gotten in the house, he would have killed us.  She replies, nonchalantly, "Oh, I think he just wanted back in the house."

Sounds perfectly reasonable.  Let's go with that, shall we?  There are some stones best left unturned.

(God rest his soul.)

He also showed up at my school and trying to abduct me, luckily thwarted by a quick thinking teacher who had her own alcoholic husband.  I think about the desperation of a man who wanted his family back but didn't know how to get his life back on track enough to do it the right way.  Of course then, I certainly didn't think that way, and this set off years of being afraid to go to school and at least a year of nonstop crying in the classroom.  My second grade teacher confronted me by bringing me into the closet and asking me if I hated her.  I didn't but did hate her a little bit in that moment for being more of a child than I was.  How innocent she was to think it was all about her.

After my dad moved out of town, he moved around a lot; we were never sure where he was, but he would send lots of rambling, emotionally charged letters, and would call from time to time.  I would write to him, mostly out of obligation and guilt.  I enjoyed getting the $50 or $100 he would sometimes send (Lord knows he never paid child support), but dreaded the letters that came with it.  Reading them was a high price to pay for that $50. 

On rare occasions, we would see him in person; my mother, I am sure, torn between doing what she thought was right and trying to protect us.  Sometimes I would talk to him but after awhile, I refused.  It was uncomfortable, and well beyond the emotional maturity I had at 6 or 10, or who am I kidding? - 42.  I didn't know how to process then - or candidly, even now sometimes - how someone who claimed to love us could hurt us so much.  It just didn't jive with any of the images I knew from television or books.  Pa Ingalls, Mr. Drummond and Mr. C certainly didn't act this way.

This continued on for years until one day, two weeks after his birthday, he died.  Killed on impact, hit by a car by a nurse driving home from her shift at the hospital.   When I read the accident report, I felt sick as it described in graphic detail how he had been hit multiple times.  It was not an easy death, but somehow fitting as his life was not easy either.  I found myself feeling sad for the woman who had killed him, really just minding her own business heading home after a hard day at work.  It made me lose my enthusiasm for driving, thinking about how one day you were just a person, and at the end of that day, you could kill someone simply by chance, through no real fault of your own.

When he died, I didn't have to worry anymore that he'd show up at school again and try to take me with him, or show up at our house uninvited.  I didn't have to feel guilty for not answering his calls or not returning his letters. In one last blow, my birthday card to him was returned to me a week or so after his death; returned to sender, addressee unknown.

As I get older, I realize more and more how much of a struggle he really had, and how, really, at the end of the day, we're all just doing the best that we can.  Sometimes it's not enough, but day after day, we're all just waking up, putting one foot in front of the other and giving it the old college try

So maybe it's that, now, as an adult, I can see beyond my fear of him to love and understanding, and that's where the sense of loss kicks in.

Sometimes I do things I'm not proud of.  I'm impatient and controlling and refuse to ask for help.  I'm overly sensitive to looking stupid and have an overdeveloped sense of justice.  Often, I say things I wish I hadn't and never say the things I should.  I haven't mastered the flow of thinking BEFORE you speak as I prefer to ruminate and obsess for years after instead of investing two seconds before in a moment of consideration that could save me a lot of grief - and sleep, and, on too many an occasion, calories.  But pretty much always, I come from a good place.

As I become more self-aware, I see how not having paternal support did impact who I've become - for better and for worse.   To every positive, a corresponding negative.  What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but it's better to be rubber - tough but flexible - than brick - thick and unyielding.  I've spend a lot of time working in brick.  Maybe it's time to switch to another medium.

Someone asked me recently if I felt cheated not really having a dad growing up.  Honestly, yes, but more in the fairytale way that probably never would have been a reality.  I think about being walked down the aisle at my wedding and other pop culture "dad" situations that I've seen on television and in the movies as being "perfect, bonding moments."  Aw, shucks, dad.

Real life is far messier, so I know that, in reality, my life wouldn't have played out in those ways.  In real life, I've had amazing uncles, cousins, brother-in-laws, teachers, mentors, coworkers and friends who have filled various "dad" roles at certain points in my life and will continue to do so.  I have been very fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful, caring men.

And my mother, as a single mom for most of my life, did a pretty great job as both mom and dad.  I think ahead to next Father's Day, when, in all likelihood, I won't have a father or mother on this earth to celebrate with, and it makes me sad.  Over the past few months, as I've prepared to say goodbye to my mother, I've had the good fortune to be able to tell her how incredible she was as a parent.  Certainly not perfect, but she did the best she could and that was more than enough.  Finally as an adult, I know how hard it must have been being both parents, and not only that, feeling the need to apologize for someone else's actions as well as your own.  And, as I get older and consider my own options, I don't know if being a single parent is something that I would be by choice, and yet, there she was.

So, on Father's Day, sure, I feel a little sad, a little wistful, but mostly I feel happy watching the joy the great dads I know feel having children, and hoping they soak up the much-deserved love and appreciation on this day.

And to those who have lost their dads too soon - it's always too soon - I simply say:

I'll be thinking of you this weekend.  I know it must be hard for you.

Permission

Ever the planner, as my mother's sickness progresses and her passing seems more real, I look to the future.

Maybe I can "find myself."  Whatever that means.  Maybe I can take a Cheryl Strayed-like trek into the wilderness and push myself to my physical, mental and emotional limits. I'll eat food from cans and carry my life on my back.

But that involves going outside.

I wonder if I instead I could "find myself" at a mall, or a spa, or while eating gelato in the Piazza di Spagna.

I think about where I'll live, having decided with certainty that I'll need to leave NYC behind.  Too many years I've felt trapped, waiting for the other shoe to drop, bracing myself as my life got smaller and smaller.  NYC seems as small as my tiny hometown now.  My apartment in Manhattan - a dream of mine when I was younger - seems tiny, claustrophobic on some days; a safe cocoon other days.  I feel 17 again desperate to find where I belong and connect with people that understand me.  I conveniently ignore the fact that wherever I go, I'll still be me.  The images in my head are me but not me, me on steroids, a better me - or maybe it's not me at all.

The prospect of change is seductive.

****

My life these days is divided in two - NYC and LI, work and family, numb and numb-er.

Having not seen my mom in two weeks thanks to a forced break in the form of another emotional storm - my 20th college reunion - 100 miles from my mother's house, it's easy to convince myself that all is well.  She sounds good today, I tell myself, ignoring the fact that she had to hang up after 2 minutes because she was out of breath.

It's the weather, it's allergies, it's boredom, it's Tuesday.  I mean, look, I'm tired too and I'm not even sick.

Out on LI, reality is far less easy to rationalize, especially when she says, "I don't know when but it will be soon."  I want to know what soon means.  Soon as in, don't go back to the city?  Soon as in, leave my phone on at night?  Soon as in, better make sure that trip I am hoping for in August is refundable?

Despite myself, I start to cry and cry nonstop my entire visit, prompting her to threaten that she is going to send me back to the city.

I am crying for myself and she consoles me, holding me for the first time in probably 35 years.  She says she won't take that away from me, that I am allowed to be sad.  She's frail and weak and I wish she could hold me tighter but I'm grateful for this moment even though it's not perfect.  She talks about mistakes she's made and encourages me to think about the future and all of the good things ahead, that I am still a young woman and anything is possible.

We both know I don't believe her.

****

Back in the city, work is a welcome distraction.  I am grateful for my job, the nature of which is that I could never do too much, it is never enough.  We can never have too much money to support our work.  My colleagues have learned how to support me, in some ways despite their best instincts.  They make gifts for my mother and slip gifts for me awkwardly on my desk.  Because you're having a rough time, they say.  They mean well, I think to myself, still not sure any of us is getting it right.

I worry my colleagues have gotten used to my unpredictable moods.  I am, at turns, soft and yielding, crying in my office which unfortunately has glass walls.  "Are you alright?" One brave (foolish?) soul might ask which is my cue to shift to hard and brusque, closed off and brittle, like pieces of me are cracking off throughout the day and vacuumed up at night by housekeeping.  "What's going on with that project?  I haven't heard an update for awhile."

I don't look up.

The best offense is defense.

*****

I reconnect with an old therapist and start working remotely as she has relocated to California.  I worry that she doesn't seem happy there but that's none of my business, although I love to deflect attention from me.  We are in the business of me, a business that resembles a burned down, abandoned building.

She's smart and soft but not at all tricked by me. This is why I like her.  I've learned the right things to say but these don't placate her.  She beats me at my own game.  We are a good match.

I decide I need pharmaceutical help, something I have resisted for years.  When I share my thinking with friends, family, my acupuncturist, my doctor, I expect resistance but everyone readily agrees, leaving me to wonder if I haven't been fooling anyone.

My sister starts calling me every night just to make sure all is ok.  I know my mother told her as keeping secrets is not a thing we do well in our family, most people told what they're getting for Christmas well before the actual exchange. One of my closest friends puts her best friend on the case, my case.  Even though we've never met she starts texting me every day.  It's oddly comforting.

Maybe I'm not as smart as I think.

Even my acupuncturist, who has made a career out of finding alternatives to Western medicine and medication, tells me this is what I need.  He's seen me week after week in various stages of distress and checks in on me regularly.  I look to him for permission and counsel, only comfortable asking for help because I pay him for it.  It's easier that way, transactional but I know it would hurt him if he knew that's how I view things.  He's realistic and not reassuring but I know he's right, "It's only going to get worse before it gets better."

I sit across from my doctor, who is very young and very fit.  Generally her solution to me in every situation is to eat better and exercise more, which is good advice that I take or leave at whim.  When I tell her that I want medicine to help manage what has become the deepest depression of my life I expect to hear her say, "Have you tried yoga?"  But she doesn't.  Instead she says, "Start taking these now so that, well, you know, when the inevitable happens...I mean, it's your mom.  You only lose your mom once."

But, because we are all who we are and she can't help herself, she says, "Diet and exercise will help a lot too."  And because I am who I am and can't help myself either because I want to please her I say, "I know.  I've lost 7 lbs since I was here last."

She goes to congratulate me then stops herself, realizing it's been less than a week since I saw her.  She stumbles.  We both want me to be thinner. "Um, that's good but too fast, you know?"

I know but my mood has taken root in my stomach and although I've been eating, food hasn't had much appeal and I've been exercising more in a desperate bid to tire out my ever spinning brain.

And besides, I need to get in shape to "find myself," which I am pretty sure involves losing a lot of everything first.

****

I spend a lot of time thinking about how maybe I wasn't born for these times.  I don't understand people, with me at the top of the list.  I embrace technology but get disappointed by it constantly - choosing to blame technology than the people behind it.  We are closer together but more apart than ever.  I hear from people I haven't heard from much nor did I expect to. It's surprising and comforting.

I bite the bullet and text a friend that I am depressed and am not sure how to get through it and need help.

I don't get an answer.

I tell myself that maybe I shouldn't drop bombshells like that, maybe people don't like it.  It makes me feel wrong and sorry I reached out.  I push down the part of me that tells me I'm not wrong and it's ok.

The next day I get a random text about the weather.

Why yes, it is cold outside.  

Even colder in here.

****

I take solace in books and read constantly, embracing an old habit from my childhood, feeling 5 years old and scared and desperate for comfort wherever I can find it. Books a far healthier choice than food as long as they are light and meaningless.  Nothing about death or dying.  Nothing too hopeful either. Let's not delude myself of a happier ever after. My comfort zone is small but I immerse myself.  I look forward to returning home at the end of the day to my books.

I tell myself I'm not isolating but simplifying and in many ways it's true.  I'm exhausted and it's all too much.  People are messy. I'm messy.  I'm not sure I can handle anyone else's mess right now.

****

I plan a hot Friday night with me and my new book after my dance class.  It's small, controlled, reassuring.

My colleagues ask if I want to join them in sending off another colleague who is heading to a new job.  

I hesitate, feeling the pull of my couch, solitude, isolation - the tidiness of my controlled world - but know this is not always the answer, and that this is not going to be the support I need moving forward.

I look up and try a smile.

"Count me in," I say.

And I almost mean it.