My dad

I spent 36 hours with a bunch of hyper, talkative, and happy middle school students this weekend. It’s funny they call it a retreat when for me it was anything but that. 48 hours later I’m still recovering.

I trudged through the games. I was overwhelmed with the large group times. That level of noise and energy is usually something I can only handle for 60 minute spurts a couple times a month. Thankfully I got some alone time by washing pots and pans and by making a couple grocery store runs.

My part in the retreat was relatively small. I was genuinely happy to take care of all the food details for the trip. I inherited a love of cooking for others from my mom. I remember her throwing together last minute delicious meals for me and my friends in high school. I also remember 20+ people coming over 2-3 Sunday’s a month for big feasts full of laughter and meaningful conversation. So loading up a Sequoia full of groceries and lugging most of it by hand from the parking lot to the kitchen 300 feet away was worth every step. It made me smile each time a kid walked up and asked “what are we eating next, Master Chef Danny?”

The hardest part of the retreat was hearing “Matthew’s” story. He is a new kid in the group, funny, goofy, awkward, and emotional. We found out he just moved from Texas to live with his dad and stepmom. A few months ago Matthew found his mom dead in bed. He has yet to realize the severity of trauma he has gone through and is going through. He just knows he misses his mom.

I told Matthew I lost my dad to suicide. Normally when I tell someone about it, their face and shoulders drop. I see pity and compassion. Matthew’s face actually lit up. I think he sensed a connection… There’s so much I want to share with him. I pray I get the opportunity. I actually just stopped writing this for a second to get his dad’s contact info.

I’m still recovering, but I think I have something to offer.

Today was a special day. Rarely do I get the opportunity to fill a day with the amount of purpose as I did over the last 12 hours.

Today I picked up two recovering addicts and spent half the day with them, doing manual labor together, chatting about our backgrounds, and enjoying a nice lunch together.

Coach Shaffer (my grade school teacher and basketball coach) reached out weeks ago to see if I knew a contractor who might be able to tackle a moisture intrusion problem at her house. I then reached out to my childhood friend Angel, an expert in restoration who willingly committed himself to head up this project. Angel, the two helpers, and I completed phase one of the project efficiently and quickly.

Angel was my childhood best friend. He has always loved me and has always been there for me. I wish I could say I was the same friend to him. Angel wasn’t one of the cool kids- but he was an amazing kid. He immigrated to the US when he was maybe 9 years old. His English wasn’t perfect, he spoke w an accent, his mom was a custodian at our school, his brother had an obvious chronic illness, his dad wasn’t in the picture, and everyone knew Angel was at the school on scholarship. I could probably write a few more run-on sentences describing the tough childhood he had. Through all of this, he was incredibly resilient and resourceful.

I was his first friend here in the US, but over the next few years I was a pretty shitty friend. I’m embarrassed now that I was embarrassed of him then. Middle school can be so horrible.

I’m thankful I don’t have a life full of regrets… but I do regret that I have hurt some people. I’m thankful Angel is a good man and is full of forgiveness. I’m thankful he now knows I love him too. I’m thankful he is still a great friend. It was such a blessing to be with him today.

Coach. Tears well up when I think of the love she has shown me. I worked my tail off in basketball because she made me feel like I was special. Summer camp, PE class, pizza-making time, me farting during team huddles… so many great memories. I could write a few more run-on sentences about her as well.

One last run-on sentence…

Crammed into the rest of the day was a hospital visit for one of my ALF residents, a flurry of work calls and e-mails, coffee with a mentor to discuss how I can be a better father to my 13 year old daughter, prayer and a chat with the drug rehab director, a few miles on the rowing machine, watching my 16 year old daughter cheer at a game, and only about 20 minutes of paperwork.

I got to be a dad today. I did critical but brief work for the business. I spent valuable time with two men who are turning their lives around. I spent time in prayer and fellowship with other believers. I served with my friend. I gave back just an ounce of the love I received from Coach.

Pardon the language, but that’s a pretty fucking perfect day.

One day I can be zeroed in, focused on purpose. My eyes are open for moments of significance. My heart is full, my mind is clear. I am prayerful. I am thankful.

At some point a switch flips. I don’t quite sense it when it happens. But a couple days or weeks go by and I realize I am removed from myself. My brain feels foggy. I am removed from my emotions and thoughts. I’ve shut down again and am operating on cruise control. I can stay here for weeks or months and I guess I still “perform” at a sufficient level. I still make time for those around me. I still serve. I still make time for things that matter, but I am not really present.

In those seasons I know what to do and how to do, but I don’t always know how to be. I know how to do good and meaningful things. I know how to show love. But in those seasons I struggle with some basic things. Self reflection and self realization seem fruitless tasks.

Right now, for instance, I can’t even fully answer how I am. I can tell you about my day, my schedule, priorities, tasks. But to describe how I am doing is tough. So I’ll start with describing and listing the obvious.

I will work out at 4pm because I know I need to take care of my health. I am the guy who arranged a group date tonight because I know relationships help us grow and mature. I am the person who will take care of a few important business priorities today. I will honor a lunch commitment to mentor someone else because giving back is important. I will call my wife during the day to check in. I will visit my brother in the hospital because he is important to me. I will check my email probably 20 times today and will return multiple messages and calls.

I am responsible.

I am sensitive and intuitive, and when I tire of and from empathy, I stop feeling and being and I just continue doing.

I don’t want to say that I am frustrated. I don’t want to be depressed. I don’t have time to be tired or hurt. Anger is a mostly useless emotion.

So I walk past and away from these things and I just do.

This four year old kid stood up to his dad and stood up for his mom.

Dad was standing over mom and yelling at her; she was sitting on the couch crying. No way in hell would she let someone treat her like that now, but at that moment she was a broken mess. There was no fight in her- just weariness. I remember standing in between him and her, pointing my finger at him, and repeatedly telling him to stop.

Soon after she would finally put her foot down and break the painful cycle she endured for far too long. I’d like to think I gave her the courage and strength to do so, but in reality it had nothing to do with me. She has always been incredibly strong.

I used to be painfully embarrassed of my dad- embarrassed by his life and his death. I definitely sugarcoated some things whenever I spoke of him. If I was describing him now, it would probably be accurate to use words like irresponsible, troubled, selfish, and mentally and emotionally unwell. Instead I just described him as being funny and a practical jokester (which was also true.)

Instead of telling the truth about him taking his life, I would usually just say “heart attack.” (That’s what I was told when I was 5.) It felt a lot better to repeat that lie into my late teen years than to utter the word, “suicide.” All these years later, it doesn’t get any easier to tell others what he did.

He was not a bad man. He was a good brother. He was a good son. But I think he was a bad husband and a poor father. My dad partied while my mom did her best at raising and providing for us. He was reckless with his body. He was naive and irresponsible with his business. He contracted AIDS and soon after decided to take his own life by hanging himself in his detached garage. He abandoned us.

What did my dad leave me? A social security benefit that maybe covered part of the tuition for my private school education. A Pound Puppy stuffed animal for my 5th birthday.

The Pound Puppy was accidentally abandoned less than 2 years later at a Dairy Queen somewhere between Jax and Miami. The social security benefit expired soon after I finished high school. However, he left me much more than those two items- and I don’t think any of the other things are good. I’ve fought my darndest to try not to pass those same things on to my kids.

I’m still standing up to my dad. I’ve forgiven him (and I’m still forgiving him.) I love him. I understand the reason for some of his hurt and chaos. But I’m still pointing my finger at him and trying to stop him from hurting those I love.

Every family dinner, soccer game, cheer event, track meet, road trip, camping trip, fishing trip, scalloping trip…

Every hurting person I reach out to, every intentional text, prayer, compliment, lunch/coffee meet up, word of encouragement…

Every hug, every hand hold, every time I hold my kids…

Every time I reach out for help, admit my weaknesses and flaws…

Every moment is me standing up to the man who has hurt and wounded me more than anyone else on this planet.

I loved putting on your camo fatigues and playing “marines” by myself for hours on end.

I remember being so enamored walking through your barracks at the end of boot camp. I got a flat top haircut at Earl’s barbershop to match.

You made my day when you showed up at my school lunch in your “tan marine clothes.” You ran with us on to the playground at recess for the best game of tag ever. You looked like you genuinely enjoyed it as much as I did.

I couldn’t wait to follow you into the marines when I got older. It all changed suddenly.

I must have been about 9 years old when I heard the news over the radio. We had just pulled into mom’s work and were still in the van when the news came on that Bush Sr was sending troops into Iraq for Desert Storm. Even at that age I somehow understood the reality of it. Immediately I started crying at the thought of you going to war. Mom tried to console me telling me you were going to be ok.

It wasn’t cool or fun anymore. It wasn’t backyard games. It wasn’t make believe. It was reality.

Death isn’t real to most kids. We were not most kids. I knew what it meant to lose someone. I didn’t want to lose you.

I don’t want to lose you now.

We had a jam-packed day yesterday. Woke up in Richmond at 4am. Breakfast in Philly at Reading Market. Lunch in Manhattan near Central Park. Pizza and wings with the in-laws in Schenectady.

In the past I would have commented something along the lines of, “what a fun day.”

I was much more deliberate with my words yesterday. “One day the kids will be thankful for the memories we created today.”

One of my earliest memories is the family vacation my dad took us on before he took his life. I remember seeing Louie sleep in the middle seat of a small car. His head was tilted back and his adam’s apple was sticking out. I think I remember a western played in the movie theater on the ship. I remember swimming in a small pool on the deck. I remember walking through a market and buying mom a small rock necklace.

There’s much I don’t remember about that trip. I don’t remember his face. I don’t remember him holding my hand or picking me up when my legs got tired. I don’t remember us complaining or asking, “are we there yet.”

I didn’t flinch yesterday when I saw the $87 parking bill yesterday. Ok, maybe I did- but I didn’t regret it. It was worth it. A small price to pay for a memorable day.

I’m not sure how much the cruise for the four of us cost ca 1986. I know he was stressed about money from his business venture that had just failed. He may have been struggling with major health issues. He didn’t have the money and he was running out of time. Whatever he spent, it was worth it.

“I didn’t need you.”

It felt good to say it. I felt anger and conviction as soon as I said those words.

I was able to hold on to that truth for about 5 seconds and then spoke my other truth.

“That was a lie.”

I broke down in tears.

I was sitting with Jonathan on a puffy leather loveseat and looking at the empty chair he was sitting in a few moments before. He had just pointed to the empty chair and said, “if your dad was sitting here right now, what would you say?”

Richard asked me that same question in our last session. I couldn’t find any words then. Just a rush of tears and emotions.

This time with Jonathan I was able to vocalize the two truths that have been the conflicting themes of my life.

I didn’t need my father. I was able to become a man without his presence in my life. I was able to build a family, a solid career, and lead an overall good life without his help. In fact, I think his absence is what shaped me into the father I am today.

Yet I also needed my father. I needed his reassurance. I needed his love. I needed his approval. I needed to know my worth isn’t based off my accomplishments. I needed to know that it’s ok to be average. I needed to know I don’t have to be everyone else’s rock.

On my good days, I am able to breathe in the blessings that I am surrounded with. Family. Faith. Purpose. Opportunities each day to bless someone else. Peace knowing I am loved and accepted. Satisfaction in my accomplishments. I feel these things in spite of the fact that my dad wasn’t there for me.

But then there are occasional moments, or sometimes REALLY long moments where I feel unloved. I feel resentment. I feel pressure. I feel tired from carrying burdens that aren’t mine. I feel anger. I feel these things because my dad wasn’t there for me.

These two conflicting truths are intertwined throughout my life. I didn’t need my dad. I am who I am in spite of his absence. I needed my dad. I am who I am because of his absence.

I typed up a short text message to you the other day. “Miss you and wish you were here.” I of course didn’t hit send. Didn’t feel like getting a response back from a stranger saying, “who dis?”

I wish I could meet with you for another burger at the Sheik. I wish you could still pop in to the house when all of our cars are parked across the street. I wish I could hear about you bragging to my mom about what a good kid I was or telling others how smart I was. I never felt as good or as smart as you said, but I wanted to be.

I hope you can see me. I think you’d be proud. You’d be proud of all your kids, including those of us you “adopted.”

I am forever in debt for the missions trips you paid for. Those experiences and memories left a permanent mark on my life.

I really wish we could have had our next counseling session. Our last one was so painful. Losing you a few days after that was devastating.

Thank you for seeing me and reaching out to me. Thank you for the encouraging texts. Thank you that your love and wisdom still shapes and guides my life. You’re one of the main reasons I never completely gave up on my faith. You were more of a dad to me than anyone else on this earth. You chose to love me. Not out of obligation. Not because I deserved it. You simply chose to love me.

We all miss you and love you. Can’t wait to see you again.

I think there’s a lot of reasons why dads fail to be there for their kids. I think most times it’s not volitional, but consequential. Sure, there are those who make a clear conscious decision to cut ties and head out of town. But even in those cases it’s not as simple as waking up one morning and choosing to leave behind both a void and a mess.

Many dads, or people for that matter, are just bound by their own problems and pain. Life is tough. We have baggage. The thought of guiding and molding a child into a mature and healthy adult while not being one oneself seems an impossible task. And so many dads retreat from the extra weight of responsibility. The word void doesn’t come close to describing what is left behind.

They’re not just leaving behind a mess. They are a mess. They’re aren’t just off fighting their own demons. They’ve left behind a legion for the next generation to fight.

36 years later I am still fighting them. But thank God, I’m actually fighting them. I don’t want to just fight my own. I want to help others fight theirs too. My healing journey isn’t just about getting better. It’s about helping my kids grow up whole and with a strong foundation. It’s about helping fill the void I see in the lives that surround me.

Eight. Eight memories of my father is all I clearly remember. Here’s one.

I remember being alone with him in a plain apartment in NYC for what felt like a very long time. I remember laying in a small bed with him. I remember getting up with him to go to the bathroom. I remember drinking seltzer water with him. I remember his pail skin and the black hair on his arms.

When recounting the memory to my mom I was informed that at the time we were living in Florida but dad was still in New York. I must have been four years old. We had gone to visit dad and other family members. Knowing my mom, I’m sure we had a busy agenda that involved anything but sitting around. I’m told that after we visited with dad I refused to leave with the rest of the family. They left and I stayed with my dad who was sick.

I was and am a cuddler. Not just a cuddler, but a suffocator. I can’t get close enough. My mom says I was like that since I was a baby. So it makes me happy to know I stayed with my sick dad and cuddled with him. I don’t know if he was achy or feverish at the time. I don’t know if my touch hurt his body. I hope I warmed his heart.

I’m glad he wasn’t alone. I’m glad he knew I missed him. I still do.