Honorable Discharge

I do not remember a single joke from Dad. That isn't because he wasn't funny. It is mostly because he wasn't fun- he wasn't fun to be around, he wasn't fun to listen to, or anything like that. Dad was no joke. I've got stories that I could tell, but they taste sour in my mouth, and they churn my guts to butter. It makes for the most foul smelling breath- poor first impression. Who needs horror movies when you've got memories like mine? The irony of it all is that, growing up, I was a horror movie enthusiast, to say the least. I ran to the television whenever some scary picture was on it. Maybe it was the drips of adrenaline, or perhaps it was the appreciation of an entertaining distraction from everyday life. In truth, as a child, I was comforted with knowing that it could be worse- I could have seven days to live, or I could be getting chased by some man-eating, winged creature with an appetite for fear. How f*cked up is that?

On a daily basis, I would watch 120 minutes or so of terror and pain in an attempt to confirm to myself that my dad wasn't the most horrifying monster out there. "I don't know how yall can watch this stuff without having nightmares. Yall crazy," he'd say to my sister and I. You taught us well, Dad. You numbed me. I had only one fear- You. You hurting us, you hurting mom, your rejection, your disapproval, your drinking. Nightmares? Oh, I had plenty, but not so colorful and not so forgiving- real nightmares that bled into daydreams, and smeared into reality, clouding all hope, and snuffing out the light.

I envy you- fatherless children, daddy's girls, papa's little men, and all those with and without a protector. I had a father growing up, but it seemed, to a little child, that he hated the job. At times, he took pride in it- a flex of the ego. We were disciplined, we excelled in school, no immature pregnancies. On the outside, my siblings and I were the best performance dogs that you could have ever seen for many, many years- a perfect match to a trophy wife from Oahu. A matching set. There was no love. I had no protector. Not in the eyes of a child. Love had to be earned and respect was never on offer- not for us dogs.

You cringe at this story. You hate that it's true. Reality isn't always pretty, and I will be kind enough to return to this point later on. But for now, it is appropriate for us to examine the facts, and eventually, we will find the lesson in our suffering. My father grew up in a hell much worse than the one that he made for us. He ran away at the tender age of 18 and joined the military, to escape his judgment- selling one's soul isn't always a bad idea. Watch this- if you had to sell your soul to Mr. and Mrs. Claus or to Frida Kahlo, which would be your preference? You may think that I have made it difficult for you to choose, but I really have not. Our hells may look different than the last, but heaven requires freedom. Freedom to exist without judgment, and most importantly, it must have 'acceptance'.

As the wisest of us know, running never truly means escape, and 18 years conceals itself well under a beautiful uniform and tantalizing title. Insecurities and fears are not fond of masks, however. Masks are itchy and unbearable. They make it harder to breathe. Life was one great roller coaster for my father. He met and fell in love with my mother, and her culture, while stationed at the infamous Pearl Harbor. They married, traveled, and eventually conceived me in the heart of New Orleans. I could imagine that it was the greatest time of their lives, but now, at the age of 30, I am still not naïve enough to believe that.

The rollercoaster took a few turns and then, my father was "honorably" discharged from the U.S. Navy. By this time, our family had grown to 5 members. It would be lovely to suggest that THIS is when the drinking started, but that would be a lie. Secrets are delicate, and they protect their existence, no matter the cost, in order to survive. To this day, I don't know what really happened on base- good luck indeed trying to pry it out of mom. I do not understand why we ended up leaving our home in California and moving to Illinois, and then living with grandma and grandpa, if we were so "honorably" released from service to our country. I just know that dad had a lot of baggage. Too much for our home on the west coast, I'm guessing.

As I sit here, and I flip briskly through the past, I can assure you, there is no segue- no gentle bridge anywhere in this story. Pages are missing. One moment, my siblings, mom, and I are awaiting Daddy's return at the dock, and he's running off the ship, bringing us flowers and State Fair sized grizzly bears, and then, in the next moment, we are in someone else's home, and he's bitter, and aggressive, and drunk.

You are obviously right to assume that there is so much more to the story, and there is, and there always will be. We'll never know it. I only know what I know. This may seem like a sad attempt to secretly arrest all fathers on the basis of one little girl who had a corrupted child for a father, but this story doesn't aim to arrest any fathers! In fact, I am not even here to persecute my own father. I know that good daddies exist. My children have all that they deserve in a leader. The truth still remains; I have been given the challenge to find meaning in all of this.

I could turn all of my horror stories, every juicy piece of experience, into a movie, a documentary, or something- they truly are that good. And I mean it- Pennywise would have given me a hall pass back then. But that is not my wish- to exploit my father like some one-legged rescue. Remember earlier when I said, "Reality isn't always pretty,"? Well, eventually I learned that you have to make it pretty. You have to tell the story that you want. As an adult, I choose to accept his past and the pain that he distributed. At first, he taught me that he was the only thing to fear. So then when I stopped fearing him, I feared nothing else!

In a weird way, he was my level 2,017 villain, and so I just needed to defeat him in order to win! And how did I do that, you may be wondering?

Love- unconditional love.

I had to love him like the father, mother, sister, brother, wife, son, daughter that he had never experienced before. I had to accept him. I had to forgive him for all of his trespasses. I couldn't go back and dig up more graves- no. That would have only angered me more, and pushed me further from the answer that he and I both needed to find in this lifetime. I decided that his pain from his childhood was toxic, and that it was killing us all, and it was impairing us from living a life of true value.

For a time, I saw him as sick, lost, scared, confused, and I empathized, "I know exactly how you feel daddy, and I am going to grant you forgiveness and redemption because it belonged to you in the beginning." And from that point on, when I saw you, I hugged you, and I kissed you, and I embraced you, as my son.

Notes from the writer:

This is a story about how a father taught his daughter how to break a generational curse. Love backward. Grow forward.