A Letter to my Dad

Hey, Daddy. Just checking in. How’s the customer service up in Heaven? I heard they have a great buffet. The cruise director happens to be an old friend.

So anyway, I don’t know if you remember, but I’m currently the same age you were when you took your own life.

I was a kid when it happened. I was 11 years old, standing before your casket, crying my eyes out. Snot coming out of my nostrils. And I had no idea what to feel.

A huge part of me missed you. But there was another part of me that was relieved you were gone. And another-NOTHER part of me felt extremely guilty for thinking that way.

What kind of sick, twisted kid is glad his father is dead? Let me explain.

You and I were different. Night and day. Black and white. Oil and Water. Mork and Mindy. And we still are different.

For starters, I love my life. I’m not miserable the way you were. I know your misery wasn’t your fault, exactly. So I don’t blame you. You had a chemical imbalance. You hated your job. Hated your marriage. Hated your own life. Probably even hated me sometimes. Which is why you were abusive.

Speaking of abuse. Do you know that it took me 42 years to realize I was an abused child? I don’t know how I was the last to know this. How could I miss all the telltale signs? I’m a slow learner, I guess.

We made excuses for you. We invented all sorts of fantastical stories about our bruises. “I fell out of a tree.” “I fell out of a tire swing.” “I fell in the shower.”

Mom and I did a lot of “falling.” But I never really identified as a child of domestic violence until this year.

I’ll never forget when it hit me—no pun intended. I was in a restaurant. Talking with someone. About something totally unrelated. And I had a thought: “Oh, my God. I was abused.”

Then it all made sense.

I understood why it was difficult for me to look people in the eyes until I was in my 30s. I understood why I used to say the words “I’m sorry” so many times during a single conversation that people were uncomfortable around me.

Did you know that I was even afraid of the dark? Isn’t that stupid?

I wish you knew how embarrassing it is admitting all this. I wish you know how it felt to be the weakwilled, textbook child of domestic abuse?

But you know what? You DO know. Because you were one too. When you were a child, your home life was a wreck.

So you and I have this in common. The difference between us is: I’m not an abused kid anymore. Not this year.

And I am not weakwilled.

This year, I hiked the Camino de Santiago. I hiked across the breadth of Spain, and I had a big personal moment:

It was overcast. I stood before a huge cross monument on the trail. And I thought about you. I thought about the times you took out your frustration on me. I thought of how we walked on eggshells to quell your temper. I thought about the damage this caused to my psyche. About how insignificant I learned to feel. About how socially withdrawn I became.

But at that cross, instead of feeling anger or pain or self-righteousness or self-pity— instead of feeling anything at all, I prayed for you.

I prayed that your soul might find peace. You deserve peace. Everyone does. You deserve rest. You deserve to know how loved you are. How special you are. You deserve not to be an “abused kid” too.

You also deserve to know how grateful I am for you. For all the lessons you accidentally taught me.

You can-NOT know what a great teacher you turned out to be. You helped me learn the greatest lesson of my life. Through the pain you generated, you helped me learn to forgive.

And I have. I forgive you. I forgive you so hard. I forgive you so completely. I forgive you seven times times seven million. Times infinity. I hold nothing against you. I love you.

You were just a confused but lovable soul, just like me. For 11 years, we shared the same patch of earth, both trying to figure out what it means to be a child of God.

I think I finally figured it out. And in roundabout way, I think you finally have too.

Happy Father’s Day.