Dear Dad
Sixteen years old and sitting on the edge of my bed in the dark with a 9mm in my hand; as a complete failure, and I had not even started. I was ashamed, deeply embarrassed by my self-righteous pity. Angry and lost. It felt like the whole world was coming down on me, and I had the facile solution, the ultimate act of self-indulgence. I'll show them, I thought. I would crush the world around me and everyone in it. The ultimate act of the victim and the perpetrator. Fuck them, all of them, I thought with a vengeful tone. I'm not sure what stopped me; maybe I was too chicken shit. Perhaps it was easier to do nothing and wait it out. To procrastinate as usual.
I think I had a typical coming of age; 7th grade was a good time. Over the summer, I had gone from a chubby dorky kid to a trimmed, good-looking young man. I was moved from one class to another; I was suddenly popular and on top of the world. I fell into a groove with a group of friends that I love dearly to this day. I had decent grades, several girls liked me, and invited to many parties. Oddly enough, I got a lot of prank calls from girls that liked me to our landline at the house. They would call and hang on the other side without saying a word. Life was good, and I was on the right side of the wave. As I would like to believe, the universe was conspiring in my favor—pronoia as it seems.
That year, my father started a job that required him to travel out of town for five days a week and return on the weekends, and I don't remember much about him during this time. But I know he was pissed, and I think he saw me as a threat. That primal instinct to destroy the pack's young cub before he becomes too strong and threatens the Alpha's rule. Or, at least, that is how I saw it from my hurt and entangled perspective for decades. This was devastating. The man who was my hero had turned on me; I felt deeply betrayed, rejected by my idol as an intruder in his home, as a destabilizing force—delivering blow after blow to my confidence, self-esteem, masculinity, and foundation. I didn't sign up for this; what did I do? You were supposed to protect me, to guide me. To show me how to be a man. Not destroy me… Fuck you, Dad! What a cliche, I think as I write this.
Remembering this phase of my life reopens deep wounds that haven't properly healed; at 39 and a father of two, I'm coming to terms with how furious I am with my father. I guess this is where the midlife crisis comes from; my son will soon be the age I was when I disconnected from my father, so the pattern repeats.
Doing everything in my power to break the pattern is now my main goal. To address the unresolved trauma passed down by my family. I can now begin to wade in the waters of that trauma, the abandonment and loss I felt during that time. Explore the internal emotional nagging that I push down because I know that if I let it out, everything else comes with it. I can now address it with care from a place of love. The positive part is that there is little left to come avalanching down. Thankfully, I've been steadily working on my shit for the past 14 years, and now I have the emotional and practical foundation to fully integrate this part of myself. I think I'm ready to deal with the core. To deal with the truth, I'm my Dad's son. With everything that comes with that fact, I can now accept him. Fully. Just as he is.
- John Acosta.
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