To Whom It Should Concern

I’m writing to inform you that it ends with me. Every time we tried to skip the apology and start over, we ended up right back where we began. But this time, it ends here.

I hereby officially tender my resignation from my position as Perpetually Underperforming. This includes my duties in carrying your emotional baggage, taking your verbal beatings, letting you take credit for my successes, bowing to your whims so low my back hurts, and especially, smiling through it all.

I’ve had enough—heard enough—been through enough—seen enough.

Over and over again, I’ve watched the implosion—from the inside, or just close enough to feel the heat. Generations have gone by, stagnant with the same sick narcissism as generations before. I’m taking the pain I lived and turning it on its head. It will be my fuel to live better, love more, and share both with those I deem worthy.

Your pain didn’t end with you. You failed to rationalize and reinvest it. Instead, you passed it along like the world’s cruelest game of telephone. The message changed slightly with each generation, and as each sibling had their different takeaways. Why it took until me for someone to put the phone down is beyond me. Yet, here I am—hanging up on you, once again.

What I wish I could call how you grew up is, in reality, why you didn’t. Adult-sized children raising children. A story all too common these days. The children learn lessons from or because of their parents. Which is worse?

It’s not my fault your parents never learned to communicate—or forgive.

But it is your fault mine didn’t either.

I know you don’t understand the word but let me try and help you before I go. ‘Accountability’ has nothing to do with your negative bank account and everything to do with my negative view of relationships, people, and their motives.

Respect was something you told me had to be earned.

But something you showed me you never had to.

Instead, it was to be afforded to you as if carved on stone tablets on Mount Sinai.

I’ve spent the last 30-something years trying to earn your respect, only to realize you’d always resent me for doing so. What a joke.

You demanded excellence, punished average, and called it love.

All those perfect grades, my promotions, my willingness to risk it all by leaving a job—the things I thought would make you proud—only did if you could take credit. It was great when you could brag about your smart kid, but as time went on and my accomplishments became more and more my own, you’d try and talk me out of them.

My clean house, that I bought, sickens you more than your filthy inherited home sickens me. You don’t say it out loud, but it shows—as your jaw drags against the floor.

I’m proof that it’s possible to rise above your station. I’ve lived the life I thought you were training me for, when in reality, you thought you’d always be better than me. That same way you look at everyone else, sloping down your nose, doesn’t see me anymore.

You have to look up now.

Sorry, not sorry.

For a long time, I thought I was strong because of you.

But the truth is, my weakness came from you—

my unwillingness to bend, my stoic fortitude in the face of grief, my stubborn pride.

All the things I mistook for strength were just scars you gifted me.

Now I see: I’m strong despite you.

I learned how to bend without breaking. There’s a difference, I promise.

Many people in this world are smarter than me, more caring than me, sharper than me, deeper than me, wiser than me—hell, some are even better than me. Admitting that took me ages, but when I did, so many more doors opened in my life. I listen more than I speak. I hear more than I say. I learn more than I preach.

I’ve made something of myself—and of my life—that no one could have foreseen. I’m not a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer. I’m not even a writer, per se.

But I am somebody.

I am me, the most me I’ve ever been.

I’m more me, possibly, than anyone’s ever been.

I’m Dave the Rave, King of the Ring.

I Am Batmania.

I’m the Madman.

I’m somebody’s favorite somebody.

And I’m my favorite me.

Damn, that feels good to say.

It is for these reasons that I submit this—my will and my resignation—for your consideration.

Maybe you’ll get it one day.

But you’ll have to figure it out on your own.

Because I can’t.

No—I won’t help you to.

Maybe both.

Best Wishes in Your Future Endeavors,

Burden and Burdened No Longer

-The Madman