I sought to be my dads center of attention.
I felt as though dad was the rock. The guy holding it all up.
When I think back and try to understand why he didn’t prepare me better for the real world, I wonder if any parent can really prepare a child for the real world. The world can be a hateful place, and generally, an accepted idea is that a parent does the best they can. Sometimes they find they are never as prepared as they thought they would be to become a parent. Experience is the teacher that some of us lack when we are thrown into the big blue world. Life is like an ogre (and an onion); it has layers and phases that one passes through.
Dad the rock, was more than I remember him being. Dad, was an entrepreneur, a baker, a soldier; dad was also the man that faced the monster, and won. I can still picture my dad walking down Raleigh street, his brown, button down shirt, brown polyester pants, tweed hat, and stubbly little cigar hanging out of his mouth. As I grew into a boy, dad was always there. He was a calm man, not overly happy or optimistic, but usually always calm. I rarely saw him angry, and when I did, it was an unsettling scene. Dad never raised a hand to me in anger or discipline, instead his form of discipline was informing me of his disappointment in me for my actions. Like the time I set his bar on fire or the time I colored every car on the block with crayons, except ours, just for fun. He spoiled me with two of any toy I asked for; I know I was the apple of his eye, when I disappointed him, I really felt bad about it.
As I grew I began to realize that my dad was much older than the the other dads, my cousins that were my age were second cousins, and my aunts on dads side were much older than my aunts on moms side. Dad was 56 when I was born; as I grew older and stronger, he grew older and weaker. I remember he would take me to car shows at the Denver auditorium, each year he was further and further behind me as we walked through the building. When I was truly old enough to understand just how old dad was, and that his time was ending soon, that rocked me. I remember the exact place I was standing when realizing dad’s mortality. When he passed away, that was the first time my heart physically hurt.
He is gone 30+ years now but not forgotten. Over the last couple of years I found a history that we both now share, and my dad continues to inspire me.
The history we share is one descended from generation to generation; it is shared to me from both my parents; and is not a pleasant thing to find out about oneself. It is a predisposition toward alcoholism. It is not an absolute that all given to this predisposition will be consumed by it, however, in my experience it has consumed, destroyed, and led to the grave for many in my family,
it also nearly ended me; therefore, it warrants special attention.
Dad didn’t care to talk much about the monster, he had faced his and won many years ago. He told me of his struggles only to the point where he was faced with his own death from it, then had to watch as mom lost her life to her monster.
He warned me about this monster, and knew I would have to face it, as I have done, as those before me have done, and as those after me will have to do so. It is one you face alone.
To know yourself is to face yourself. Alcohol does not stand on its own, it requires a host, the alcoholic.
By honest observation you can take responsibility for yourself, even your worst self, and see into the dark places. Don’t give up.
