Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. I extend those well wishes to the mothers, who have to wear both hats, due to circumstance or happenstance. This past Father's Day was one filled with mixed emotions for me. If the tone of this entry seems rife with self pity, it is not. I am grateful for where I am at on my journey.
Over the last few years, Squeaky and I have made it a tradition to visit Montana Charlie's on Father's Day. Charlie's could be called a flea market. It is different than most, because there are more new items for sale, than used.
Steamy weather has made our visits a tradition as well. Over the last couple of years it has been scorching hot as we walk the aisles of the fair grounds. We search out our favorite spots, haggle over a few items all the while wilting away. Soon after, one of us calls it quits. Then we high tail it to the car for the chilled breeze of the air conditioned car.
I started the day burdened by a melancholy that hung around my neck like an albatross. It is the second Father's Day without my Pop. It wasn't easier than last year. My feelings of loss and longing for his company sets itself deeper within me on each passing day.
I was taken back to Father's Day 2010. It was 6 weeks before his death. On that day, as we visited, I knew it was going to be our last together. He would enter hospice just a few weeks later. I don't know if the sudden loss of someone you care about hurts worse than knowing that the end is imminent. It was my second sober holiday, and the clarity of the situation was hard to process. I was, and am, grateful that I felt all of it. Going to any length to avoid feelings was my M.O. for years.
While we scanned the aisles of Charlie's for spices and jewelry I had another moment of clarity. A couple of years earlier we ran into my Dad, and my Second Mom. He was decked out in a Bears shirt with goofy shorts, and white tube socks that went halfway up to his knees. My Pop was not a fashionista. I guess I'm not either.
On that particular day we weren't talking on a regular basis. We had a disagreement a few months earlier and he had put the freeze on me. My dad was always right, even when he wasn't. He never let the facts get in the way of his opinions. We made small talk, for a moment or two, and went our separate ways. I remember vividly looking down the aisles for him as we worked our way through the maze of people.
I had forgotten about that until yesterday. It fell on me like bricks. The heat of the sun mixed with the flashback sent me reeling with anxiety. Squeaky looked at me as if she was reading my mind. She held me as tears dripped from my burning eyes.
When I sprinkled part of his ashes at Soldier Field shortly after his death, I bought a Bears hat from the 1963 Championship Team. I told Squeaky it was to be my last Bears hat. I never wanted her to buy another one for me again. It sits in my office next to the two Bears hats my dad wore the most.
Squeaky knows me like no one else ever has. I suppose it's because I let her in to my heart. She can read me like flashcards for a third grader. We are connected. As we broke our embrace I looked left and spotted a Chicago Bears mug, not less than five feet away. We gave each other the look and I bought it on the spot. We dispensed of the ritual haggling and simply bought the mug. It was to remember my pop.
Being a step dad on Father's Day is an experience in itself. Even though I live with Bro, see Sunny often and hear from Hemingway regularly I am not DAD. Throughout the day I waited for them to call or text. I reflected on their younger days when I was an angry insecure jerk. I wished I could take every moment back and have a "do over," like when we were kids playing baseball in the school yard.
I tried to shake the darkness from me on such a bright day but it clung to me like plastic wrap on a bologna sandwich. As I pulled free from one side, the other flipped back to cling on again. I knew I had to think my way out of the situation. My feelings were getting the best of me. I took my mug and we headed for home.
When I returned home and switched on my computer there was a message from Hemingway. She said she loved me and I fell apart like a two dollar watch. Out of all the kids, I wish I could have the years of her late teens back to give it another approach. I was unbearable. She is an amazing woman. Later in the day I got texts from Bro and Sunny. My day was almost complete.
Mouse, my youngest daughter, is still AWOL from my life. She is twelve. I am not sure where her mother has taken her to. I have to be patient. I know in GOD'S time it will work out. Maybe it won't. I will endure whatever outcome I face sober. I am ready to take her back into my arms in a minute. My years of alcohol abuse has left her mother angry and I'm sure few positive remarks are made about me to her.
In recovery I have encountered many people trying to repair the damage of their past. I am troubled by those who say, "I will NEVER apologize or FORGIVE them!" Those are hard words to swallow after being so easily spit out. I would pay a million bucks to have my dad repeat all the things I ignored as a kid. I long for his laughter. I miss his stories that he repeated ad infinitum.
Life is short. Wounds can be difficult to heal. Scars remain. I plan on leaving this earth with a few scars and no open wounds. Anger and resentment is too overwhelming. Being right doesn't have to be the end game. I have said it a million times, like my dad would. Don't leave any regrets on the table. Swallowing your pride is easier than choking on your tears. I have learned that facing problems is easier than living with the ones you'll never have the chance to fix....
Soul Parole: Making Peace With My Mind, GOD And Myself, with Foreword by Tom Dreesen and Epilogue by David Brenner, will be available July 7, 2012. Look for it on Amazon, Amazon Europe and Kindle. Personalized copies will be available at soulparole.com.
Proceeds will benefit Chicago Area Addiction, Homeless and Mental Health facilities
Over the last few years, Squeaky and I have made it a tradition to visit Montana Charlie's on Father's Day. Charlie's could be called a flea market. It is different than most, because there are more new items for sale, than used.
Steamy weather has made our visits a tradition as well. Over the last couple of years it has been scorching hot as we walk the aisles of the fair grounds. We search out our favorite spots, haggle over a few items all the while wilting away. Soon after, one of us calls it quits. Then we high tail it to the car for the chilled breeze of the air conditioned car.
I started the day burdened by a melancholy that hung around my neck like an albatross. It is the second Father's Day without my Pop. It wasn't easier than last year. My feelings of loss and longing for his company sets itself deeper within me on each passing day.
I was taken back to Father's Day 2010. It was 6 weeks before his death. On that day, as we visited, I knew it was going to be our last together. He would enter hospice just a few weeks later. I don't know if the sudden loss of someone you care about hurts worse than knowing that the end is imminent. It was my second sober holiday, and the clarity of the situation was hard to process. I was, and am, grateful that I felt all of it. Going to any length to avoid feelings was my M.O. for years.
While we scanned the aisles of Charlie's for spices and jewelry I had another moment of clarity. A couple of years earlier we ran into my Dad, and my Second Mom. He was decked out in a Bears shirt with goofy shorts, and white tube socks that went halfway up to his knees. My Pop was not a fashionista. I guess I'm not either.
On that particular day we weren't talking on a regular basis. We had a disagreement a few months earlier and he had put the freeze on me. My dad was always right, even when he wasn't. He never let the facts get in the way of his opinions. We made small talk, for a moment or two, and went our separate ways. I remember vividly looking down the aisles for him as we worked our way through the maze of people.
I had forgotten about that until yesterday. It fell on me like bricks. The heat of the sun mixed with the flashback sent me reeling with anxiety. Squeaky looked at me as if she was reading my mind. She held me as tears dripped from my burning eyes.
When I sprinkled part of his ashes at Soldier Field shortly after his death, I bought a Bears hat from the 1963 Championship Team. I told Squeaky it was to be my last Bears hat. I never wanted her to buy another one for me again. It sits in my office next to the two Bears hats my dad wore the most.
Squeaky knows me like no one else ever has. I suppose it's because I let her in to my heart. She can read me like flashcards for a third grader. We are connected. As we broke our embrace I looked left and spotted a Chicago Bears mug, not less than five feet away. We gave each other the look and I bought it on the spot. We dispensed of the ritual haggling and simply bought the mug. It was to remember my pop.
Being a step dad on Father's Day is an experience in itself. Even though I live with Bro, see Sunny often and hear from Hemingway regularly I am not DAD. Throughout the day I waited for them to call or text. I reflected on their younger days when I was an angry insecure jerk. I wished I could take every moment back and have a "do over," like when we were kids playing baseball in the school yard.
I tried to shake the darkness from me on such a bright day but it clung to me like plastic wrap on a bologna sandwich. As I pulled free from one side, the other flipped back to cling on again. I knew I had to think my way out of the situation. My feelings were getting the best of me. I took my mug and we headed for home.
When I returned home and switched on my computer there was a message from Hemingway. She said she loved me and I fell apart like a two dollar watch. Out of all the kids, I wish I could have the years of her late teens back to give it another approach. I was unbearable. She is an amazing woman. Later in the day I got texts from Bro and Sunny. My day was almost complete.
Mouse, my youngest daughter, is still AWOL from my life. She is twelve. I am not sure where her mother has taken her to. I have to be patient. I know in GOD'S time it will work out. Maybe it won't. I will endure whatever outcome I face sober. I am ready to take her back into my arms in a minute. My years of alcohol abuse has left her mother angry and I'm sure few positive remarks are made about me to her.
In recovery I have encountered many people trying to repair the damage of their past. I am troubled by those who say, "I will NEVER apologize or FORGIVE them!" Those are hard words to swallow after being so easily spit out. I would pay a million bucks to have my dad repeat all the things I ignored as a kid. I long for his laughter. I miss his stories that he repeated ad infinitum.
Life is short. Wounds can be difficult to heal. Scars remain. I plan on leaving this earth with a few scars and no open wounds. Anger and resentment is too overwhelming. Being right doesn't have to be the end game. I have said it a million times, like my dad would. Don't leave any regrets on the table. Swallowing your pride is easier than choking on your tears. I have learned that facing problems is easier than living with the ones you'll never have the chance to fix....
Soul Parole: Making Peace With My Mind, GOD And Myself, with Foreword by Tom Dreesen and Epilogue by David Brenner, will be available July 7, 2012. Look for it on Amazon, Amazon Europe and Kindle. Personalized copies will be available at soulparole.com.
Proceeds will benefit Chicago Area Addiction, Homeless and Mental Health facilities
No comments:
Post a Comment