Conspirator

Cleverness is its shield and also its sword.

It camouflages itself as reason. Overrides your better angels. Knowing your fears, it plays upon them, a crescendo that rises to an apex that is impossible to ignore. There are cracks within you, and it inveigles into them, pushes them wider. All the while tricking you into believing you’re something you’re not. Too often, you listen. It whispers to you in a tone only you hear.

Your conspirator misleads you time and time again. After it has worked its alchemy on you, it slithers back to the darkness within, waiting for another opportunity to bring its agenda to the fore. To conspire with you, unwittingly, to follow its whims. Only after the fact can you see the falsity of its claims. Its true genius, though, lies in its ability to rebirth itself again, unseen, and lure you into its trap and plunge you into its morass.

Conspirator, thy name is doubt.

Nowhere is my conspirator more active than in my role as a father, especially as my children edge closer to adulthood. My every statement, every action is subject to its blistering feedback, after which it masterfully rewrites my mental code to assign the source as logic rather than itself.

Doubt is a chameleon.

Teen age years are rife with self-exploration and self-expression. What they are not, by and large, are times where my fatherly advice is needed. The nature of adolescence is discovery, and there’s not much room for my wisdom from a pre-internet time.

That leaves me in an alien role: a parent who isn’t needed constantly. The younger the kids, the more you are needed, an essential piece of their days. Years and experience gained for them means stature lost me. It seems an odd space for me to occupy. This unfamiliarity is where the conspirator finds a foothold yet again and uses fear to bolster itself.

Since I want my kids to become good adults, I believe my thirty years’ experience as human adult qualifies me to dole out those nuggets of insight. Because my capacity as a dad previously commanded their attention, I overestimate their willingness to hear my life lessons. To their credit, they desire to make their own way, to learn as I did: trial and error. The challenge is for me to take my latent expectations out of the equation. The conspirator instigates here as well, playing on my hurt feelings about being needed less and insisting what I have to offer from “real world” experience is in fact required to be given.

Doubt is resourceful.

The truth that my conspirator doesn’t want me to grasp is that I have done an admirable job as a father. My children have been imbued with the morals my wife and I believe to be imperative for operating as a good person in the adult world. They practice these more than I realize, thanks to the deception that doubt weaves into my thoughts. While they can be abrasive and lean towards ignoring advice given to them most times, they truly are good and wonderful people. They are working through how they fit in society, just as I had (and in truth, am still doing). They care. They love. They grow. And oh, how proud I am of them.

I’ll set a watch for that conspirator. It is gifted, and will breach my defenses at times, insinuating itself into my consciousness. More than four decades of deft maneuvering makes it a formidable foe. While I may never be rid of it, perhaps it can be steered in other directions. I certainly have no shortage of insecurities it can latch on to.

Doubt is flexible, after all.

Photo credit: DrCuervo

 

 

 

 

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The Shame I Harbor

Deep in the recesses of my past, a bleak darkness hides. Few know of this chapter in the history of me, and that is by design. It is a source of shame, this black hole that devoured me and nearly dragged those I love down with me, whom I’m certain felt the substantial pull of it. They know the depths that it took me, how far into the abyss it dragged me down. They also know the will and fortitude it took to make my way out from under crushing weight of its control.

Nearly everyone I love knows. All except my children. They don’t have the faintest inkling of my degradation. Truth is, I’m terrified to tell them. Terrified that they will think less of me. Terrified that they will step back from me, fear in their eyes. Terrified that I’ll lose their love for me. Terrified that they will no longer see me as their father, but as something less.

I’m terrified to tell them that I’ve been in prison. That I was arrested and spent nearly a year of my life as an inmate.

What is even more worrisome for me is to tell them why I was incarcerated. I was an addict, but not in thrall to drugs or liquor. My demon was gambling. I am scared out of my wits that once they learn the truth of me, the ugly side of me, they will only see me as what I was, and not what I am. I was an addict, a junkie. What I am is a father. A husband. A man who’s worked his way out of a shit heap of my own making, and managed to build a life that is more than I ever thought possible.

Nearly 25 years ago, I was arrested two days before Christmas. I was thrown in a cell in Dauphin County Prison, which happened to be right near a mall. Over the next two days, while the prison classified me to put me in general population, I watched through bars of a murky window the scores of people and cars moving briskly to get gifts for their loved ones. I let each armful of presents that walked by rip a part of my soul out. I was a terrible human being, and this was my atonement.

I knew this was the truth because of everything I’d done to end up in the prison that I was locked in, physically and mentally. I’d stolen money to feed the beast within. I’d lied to friends. I’d taken from my family, uprooting all trust they had in me. In the throes of my addiction, I’d rationalized these actions, falsely telling myself that if I could just hit the big bet, win against the odds stacked against me, just once, that I could pay everything back, and all would be well again. But it never happened. No matter the lies I told others to deceive them, the checks I wrote on bank accounts I had no money in, the way I pretended to be a person who had it all together. I was an addict. I was a deceiver. A liar. A charlatan who preyed on others. I deserved whatever punishment I was given.

The day after Christmas, I made a promise to myself. I was going to get myself well. I believed that if I could do that, then over time and with diligence, then perhaps I could regain the love and trust of my family. I knew this would not be an easy road; it would be one fraught with rightful accusations and angry words. As much of a climb this would be to the mountain top of my redemption, I was going to persevere. My parents were the ones I needed to rebuild with the most. I’d taken money from them, even stole their credit cards. Though they never verbalized it, I knew they were devastated. I was determined to show them, through actions, not words – those I was gifted enough to use as a shield to my egregious behaviors – that I was the man they raised their son to be, not the craven thief I’d become.

I struggled mightily, working two full time jobs for most of the first year of my parole. Most days I was lucky to get 3 hours of sleep. I rented a room in a building in the poorest section of Harrisburg, because that was the most I could afford. I shared a kitchen and a bathroom with the other tenants, one of which threatened me because he suspected I took his ketchup. I walked to work almost daily, not having enough money to take the bus. This was the greatest challenge I’ve faced in my life to that point. I’d created this challenge through my own actions, and I was going to defeat it by my own actions. I worked hard at paying back the significant amount of money I’d stolen. And I worked even harder at proving to my family that I was no longer the pathological liar who had duped them at every turn.

It took years of demonstrating my rehabilitation, but I did exactly that. Years of barely scraping by, surviving on ramen noodles and PB&J sandwiches. Years of rebuilding the foundation of trust I’d so wantonly destroyed because I chased the darkness.

A lot has happened in my life since then. I’ve married, had two marvelous sons, got divorced, bought a house, sold a house, bought another house, remarried, added two fabulous daughters to my family. I’ve worked in corporate IT for close to twenty years. I’ve lived a life that I’m grateful for. I shouldn’t feel so overwhelmed to tell my children about the grand mistake I made years before any of them were even alive.

Yet… I do.

Logically, I know that my kids will love me regardless of my past. They’ll see how I am now, as a man and a father. They’ll know I love them and care for them beyond any measurement that exists. Emotionally, I’m petrified. Doubt sits in the background, casually inserting itself just enough into my thoughts to cause chaos. That’s its purpose, after all, and its skill is undeniable. The power is exerts is subtle and devastating.

My wife, my champion, stands resolute by my side. She understands my hesitation, yet steadfastly reminds me of the unlikelihood that my fears will come to fruition. She empathizes with the side of me that believes I’m unworthy of the love I crave from my family. She also shoots straight with me. She fights the leviathan that is my doubt with truth and unequivocal love. Doubt doesn’t stand a chance to against the brilliance that is her light.

So this weekend, I will sit with my children, the ones who I love and adore most, and explain to them the most unflattering season of my life. I will tell them about my past addiction and all the ugly ways it infested my life. And then I will await their questions (for there WILL be questions) and answer them as honestly and earnestly as I can.

I hope they’ll take my tale of struggle and apply the hard lessons I had to learn and endure and use them in their own lives. I hope the message of work ethic and perseverance wins out in their young impressionable minds.

I hope they won’t think less of me. I hope they’ll still see me as their father, less than perfect, but ever on their side.

I hope it will be easier for them than it has been for me.

Image credit:  Uno Mas En La Familia