Self-Pity begets Daddy Issues? I hope not.

Being a father is something I take very seriously. Some find that hard to believe due to my late night proclivity to solitude or my afternoons sprawled out in one of the local movie theatres. I'm the Norm Peterson of the theatre. I even, question my actions on some occasions. Is this what a father should be doing? Not a question that I like to answer, or more importantly like the answer. Here I am at one in the morning writing a blog, after opening up a vein and contributing to my never-ending opus, after a nice date night with my lovely wife. Why am I still up?

There's so many days when my mind is in 5^th gear, and my body is in neutral. One learns ways of coping with these moments, and then one has to unlearn those same coping mechanisms as they mature. For some it's drugs or alcohol, others it's chasing skirt or other destructive behavior. I watch movies, or find a quiet place on Oak Hollow Lake and read a book. I disappear. . My life's pretty tame in comparison. So I guess that's why I've been okay with it. Either way, we have to discipline ourselves to let go of those childish things and suck it up, and be a man. We have to let go of what once provided us the very solace that balanced us growing up. Should I be buying tickets to see a movie a week instead of spending time with my daughter and son? I know the answer, and it's hard to justify the actions but I do. Please don't judge. I'm a self-aware monster.

It's funny when I tell people about the movies I've seen, or my afternoon plans. They seem to look at me like, is he married? I've even been asked, "How do you get away with that?" My best response, I do.

Late at night I walk into my children's room and give both of them a kiss. I listen to them breathe, and tell them that I love them. Then I walk into my refuge, behind the piles of books and bills and start writing. I harbor the fantasy that one day I could write a book in honor of them. "This book is dedicated to my beautiful and loving children." But would that make up for the absenteeism of a daddy? I don't even know why I would ask that question. I know the answer, yet I continue down this path.

Some nights when I don't have the head phones blasting Bob Dylan, and the fan turned way up I hear Aubrey call out for Mommy. It's touching, and warms my heart beyond anything I could imagine other than one thing. "Daddy", in which she says on a rare occasion. Sometimes, Liam looks at me and smiles, and eclipses anything else in the room. Moments like these are when I say to myself this is what I signed up for, and I'd do it again and again. Yet, I know this is the sacrifice. I reflect on the fact that I didn't have a father in my life until I was sixteen years-old. When I look at my life I see where I missed out on the formative encouragement of a father's love as a child. I had more than enough love from my mother, but it's something that can't be replaced. In many cases I believe that the lack of real father figures can be accounted for as one of the many ruinous effects on modern society. Everyone knows that America has "Daddy issues".

I guess I have some growing up to do. No matter what, my intentions are to be there for my children. Through thick and thin, and hell and high water, I think about them and their safety all day, every day. If I inherited anything from my father, it's his hyperactive anxiety in regards to things mostly out of my control. Despite the lunacy of scenarios that have been offered up to me by my him, I know that deep down inside his heart is in the right place.

Some fathers go out drinking after work, others smoke their brain cells into a haze, and others just don't come home. I'm not looking for a prize, just some understanding as I try to make my way through the world. Just a little less speculative opinion, and a little more sympathy for a man trying his best to balance the insanity of life's web of complexity. Maybe I write this as a way of purging my conscience? Perhaps it's a way of coming to terms with my selfishness? Or a release of guilt for being so self-sympathetic that I have to plug in to another world and unplug from my world as if it was a game of SIMS. Either way, I'm trying to be a grown up in a sophomoric world of hypocrisy, bloodlust, and sensationalism that's destroying mankind in spite of itself in the name of greed and entertainment. It's hard to be a man, much more a father, or a good father.

I look forward to the day when I can take them with me. Buy them an oversized drink, and some buttery popcorn. Find a quiet corner in the theatre. Sit back, and take it all in. Plug in, and unplug. Then again, am I contributing to a future problem? Maybe. . . All I know is that I love my family. My wife is an incredible mom and she does so much for me. She is an absolute saint when it comes to my escapist excursions. I have a lot of making up to do. . . And that's all I have to say about that.

 

"Daughter"

By London Wainwright III

 

Everything she sees
she says she wants.
Everything she wants
I see she gets.

That's my daughter in the water
everything she owns I bought her
Everything she owns.
That's my daughter in the water,
everything she knows I taught her.
Everything she knows.

Everything I say
she takes to heart.
Everything she takes
she takes apart.

That's my daughter in the water
every time she fell I caught her.
Every time she fell.
That's my daughter in the water,
I lost every time I fought her.
I lost every time.

Every time she blinks
she strikes somebody blind.
Everything she thinks
blows her tiny mind.
That's my daughter in the water,
who'd have ever thought her?
Who'd have ever thought?
That's my daughter in the water,
I lost everytime I fought her

Yea, I lost everytime

My Escape to Where the Wild Things Are

 

"There should be a place where only the things you want to happen, happen."

In the haze of what could only be described as stumbling to the bathroom after rolling out of bed, I couldn't shake the dream that I thought I had. To have experienced the book as a kid was to escape into a fantasy world, an award winning picture book, in which you were the king of monsters. To see through Spike Jonze eyes, is to see the world as a child once again. I awoke to a stark reality. That I was not dreaming. I was indeed in a theatre, captivated by the magic of Maurice Sendak's masterpiece Where the Wild Things Are on the silver screen.

The weight of the world can be incredible. The reality of the eternal nothingness. . . The Infinite Abyss. . . The dog-eat-dog status quo in which, when it matters, we are all out for ourselves. The feeling that no one can hear us, or that we even matter to anyone else. There is heartbreak, lies, and change. All of that begets the explosive anger in us, like a child we lose the ability to be rational. A delayed temper tantrum, that implodes onto the suburban-working class-post-adolescent version of us. The worst version of ourselves, in which adulthood encroaches on us, and we can no longer pound our fists and go kicking and screaming into our rooms. The all encompassing loneliness of being a kid misunderstood amplified by the complexity of inter-office posturing, and TPS reports. We all feel this way sometimes. Just like a kid, staring out the rain freckled window of our room hoping for the sun to come out and warm the pane.

As an adult, we can't afford to be beholden to our emotions. That's a misstatement, we are only human, however we can ill-afford to let them run wild as a kid. Growing up is filled of rights-of-passage, many regrets, and ill-conceived genuflecting to the dreams of children. In the book, and movie Max wants a return to normalcy, to be as it was. Changes in family that he can't understand overcome his ability to tame the beast within, and he runs away. This is more than your standard kid's film. Pixar and 3D would have cheapened the experience, and Sendak's illustrations. This film is a trip, in away. For those so inclined, I would imagine that this would be fun on acid. For me, that's an imaginative leap, and those I am predisposed to. Max's imagination like many of ours is the conduit he uses to grow, and evade the harsh reality of the ceaseless minute during a timeout or the sting of a spanking.

This story impacted me, again, but even more this time. Anybody that knows me knows of my weakness for the story. Escapism is my nicotine, my balance to the pressures of knowing what I know—what an adult knows. Little Max is screaming mad at his sister, and mother. He just wants to be understood. His destructive actions are the only way in which he can convey his feelings. The ends justify the proverbial means, so to speak. By smashing, and tearing through the house he can get their attention. Now they will listen! Just like his friend Carol, played by the incomparable James Gandolfini, he smashes and destroys his friend's huts to express his anger. They just don't seem to understand him, and he doesn't yet understand the pain that he inflicts. Max's mother can't help but to see a monster. As in our lives, we feel impotent to affect our circumstances. I feel like Max a little every day. We all want to run into another world where we can be king. We all want to let the "wild rumpus" start.

As Max shapes the world of Wild Things, he soon finds out that he too is but only a player. A sobering truth for all of us, I thought as I listened to the radio scream at me on why the world is going to hell in a hand basket.