On Anger, and Bad Days

"You're afraid of going back to the house, aren't you?"

This question, asked with a giggle by one of my children, was what led to the culmination of a very bad week. The mother of my children had recently begun having her boyfriend over for sleepovers. I had, and still have, no problem with this. She's human, after all, and needs companionship, like we all do. I did, and still do, have a problem with her having the man sleep in her bed while my children are there. Especially, as was the case last weekend, on Fathers Day.

I recognize that I can't control, or dictate morality, to anyone else. They have to make the decisions that they make because they believe that they're the right decision for themselves. As a parent, however, I believe that these decisions must take into consideration the best interest of the child or children in your care. Having someone you've known for less than two months, and that your children have met once or twice, sleep in your bed while your children sleep nearby, seems irresponsible to me. I wouldn't do it, and I asked the mother of my children not to do it, the week before Fathers Day. She agreed.

This is important to me. In a world challenged at every turn by moral dilemmas, I find myself looking for the simplest answers around me. When I ask something of someone, and they agree, I believe that they will honor their terms of the agreement. It seems simple enough to me. "Will you please not let your boyfriend stay the night while the kids are here, at least until the divorce is finalized? It sets a bad example." "Okay, I won't." Simple enough, in my eyes. Imagine the sadness involved on my part, then, when I was told by one of my children that he had spent the night, and woke up in her bed, on Fathers Day. That he had then come back, and spent the night again after I dropped the kids off on Fathers Day. I was hurt beyond words. We had an agreement.

This past Tuesday, I spoke with her again, and she made no effort to apologize for lying to me and breaking our agreement. I let it go, because I recognize that I can't control her morality, can't make her decisions for her. She asked, instead, that I get to know her boyfriend. Give him the chance to win me over, man to man. I've always hoped that whoever she ended up with, I could have some form of friendly relationship with. My early experiences with this man precluded any hope that I had in this case.

Without becoming specific to a degree of personal intrusion, I will say that when I first spoke to him, he threatened me, because I wanted to Google his name for the safety of my children. We spoke again, and while he eventually gave me his name, he also gave me a lengthy discourse on how lucky I was that he wasn't physically near me, because I had angered him so greatly. I listened to a rant about my character, and my inadequate qualities as a provider, and a father. I listened to these things from this man, and I let it go. Afterward, I made a point of avoiding the house when he was there. I had no desire to meet this man. No desire to get to know him. Last week, I asked the mother of my children to at least have him out of the house every other day, so that I could visit at the house with my children. She agreed.

Last night, on a night when I was supposed to have time at the house with the kids, she told me that we would need to go to the park, because he was at the house. Another agreement, broken. We argued for a short period of time about why she couldn't keep up any of our agreements. She had no adequate reasons, and I gave up the argument, in favor of spending time with my kids. My beautiful, precious children, who went on to tell me about how they spend their days with John. How they go to the store with John. How they love John, but not as much as they love me. I was defeated. While I work, to provide for them, to give her money with which to feed my children, and while I pay all of her bills, she and this under employed stranger get to spend their days entertaining my children. I avoided the house while he was there, to avoid confrontation, to avoid an unpleasant encounter, giving him time to steal away my children.

Out of nowhere, near the end of the visit, one of them uttered those words.

"You're afraid of going back to the house, aren't you?"

I asked my child where they had heard this. "John." I asked their mother why she would let this man say such things to my children, without coming to the defense of their father. "Neither of us knows what to think." was her response. Because the event and its repercussions are still too new, I won't go into detail regarding the rest of the evening. I will say though, that my child knows now that I am not afraid of this man. Unfortunately, in the process, I may have ruined what could have been a happy, healthy relationship that my children and their mother had with someone who made them happy. Instead of dealing with this situation in a constructive way, I gave in to my anger and dealt with it in a destructive way. Granted, the man was speaking ill of me to my children, with no defense from their mother, but I'll have to grow to expect that. I'll have to stop looking for cooperation from her, because we're not working toward the same goals. That saddens me, because I realize that it only hurts our children, but I can't make those decisions for her. I can, however, choose not to let the anger control me, and be the man that my children need me to be.

On SSRI's and hard times

Due to my own incompetence, I ran out of my SSRI a week and a half or so ago. Those who have been prescribed SSRI's, like Effexor, know how effective they can be. Those who have come off of that particular form of medication know how difficult that can be. During that period of withdrawal, I found myself drawn into drama over the safety of my children. There are few things in life that I take more seriously than the happiness and security of my children. While I believe the drama to be resolved, I was saddened greatly at the amount of deception involved. While unfortunately I can't say that I was surprised at the fact that it went on, I was surprised at how much I allowed it to hurt me.

I have, through the course of this path that I have put myself on, tried very hard to minimize the amount of pain that the mother of my children went through. She is, after all, half of their world, half of their happiness. Happy parents make happy children. While I will continue to believe in this, I don't believe that I can honestly make myself believe that she plans to extend the same courtesy to me. I accept that. It is, after all, the road that I have put myself on. Even so, I have cried more today than I have in a very long time. I really had hoped that I could keep a friendship with her that would make co-parenting easier.

I took one of the Effexor as soon as I left the pharmacy, and the nausea is already kicking in. I have struggled more with loneliness and with doubt over the last week and a half than I have in months, and it isn't a pleasant place to be. I hate that I have to medicate to get through this, but I've come to realize that if I don't, it will only continue to get worse. I look to a day when I won't need to chemically prop up my happiness, but unfortunately, I haven't reached that leg of my journey yet. For now, I look not to the thunderclouds above my path, but to the flowers beside it, and I try to remind myself of the important things.

On alcohol, loneliness, and acceptance

Several times recently I've found myself drunk. On one of those occasions, very drunk. Never, it should be noted, in the presence of my children. Before the end of my marriage, I drank rarely, always socially, and very, very rarely to excess. When considering my recent experiences, I've found that I set out to seek refuge from loneliness in the alcohol. I had never expected to find myself looking for answers in the bottom of a glass. While it surprises me that at some point I thought that this was an acceptable answer, I probably shouldn't be so surprised.

It's been 4 months now since I stepped away from my marriage, and for a large portion of that time period, I've been alone. These weeks have been the longest periods of solitude that I've experienced in the last 13 years. Granted, I have the love and companionship of my children, and that does go a long way toward making this transition period bearable, but they can only stand to be hugged for so long before they need to wriggle away and expend their youthful energy somewhere else. Funny, how something as simple as a hug from someone that isn't obligated by the bonds of family to give them can be so profoundly missed. I've always been one of those people who puts everything into a hug. My love, my care, my worry, my compassion, all of it flows through the hug, and I try to make them last. These kinds of hugs make some people uncomfortable, but for others the effect is mutually therapeutic. As a physically affectionate person, this has been a hard time for me. I've found that, while the alcohol led to some embarrassing FaceBook posts, and some emotionally charged behavior, it didn't provide the outlet that I had been looking for.

At this point, depending on who you are, and how you feel about the path that I've set myself on, you may be thinking that I have noone to blame for this situation but myself. This is true. I wouldn't dare try to pass the consequences of my decisions off on someone else. You may choose to believe that my suffering is a suitable punishment for what I've done to others. On this, we would agree to disagree. According to the wisdom of the Dalai Lama, pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. In examining my loneliness, and in trying to obtain right understanding, I've found that while acknowledging my pain is healthy, trying to avoid dealing with it through the alcohol only caused suffering. Rather than choose to try to hide from the pain, I've decided to choose to address the source.

While I attribute my pain to loneliness, if I'm being honest with myself, it's really about fear. In stepping away from my marriage, I've stepped away from companionship, intimacy, and affection that I don't know when I'll experience again. When I consider how important these things are to me, I find that they represent validation of my self worth. My fear of being alone is really a fear of being unloved, unlovable. I estimate my value in how much someone else values me. Here, in the heart of this, is a crucial choice to be made. Do I move aimlessly through the rest of my life hoping to find validation in the love of someone else? Or do I choose to find value from within, learning to love the person that I am without requiring the validation of someone else?

I've received praise and kind words of encouragement from friends and loved ones over the past few weeks. One person in particular has gone to great lengths to extend her love and acceptance to me. In the state that I'm still in, I haven't been able to accept that love and devote the attention that I should to returning it to her, or to anyone else in my life. I've always scoffed at the notion that before you can truly love someone else, you have to be able to love yourself. I understand it now, at least a bit better than I did. If I can't recognize and accept my flaws, or the goodness of who I am as a human being, how can I fully understand and accept someone else? If I dwell on what I don't like about who I am, aren't I just training myself to focus on what I don't like about others? Likewise, if I learn to accept and love myself unconditionally, cultivating the joy that comes from that acceptance and love, then I prepare myself to be a vessel for that love, ready to pass it along to others.

There's a great story about a cracked water pot used by Buddhists to emphasize accepting our imperfections. You can google the story to find it in its original form, but the lesson of the story is that while a cracked water pot may not carry as much water to its destination, the water it spills along its journey nourishes flowers on the path. Rather than focus on where I fail, I choose instead to focus on the beauty that the journey of my life sows. In so doing, I hope that I can help others see the beauty that their own journey gives to others.

Memorial Day

All too often, we tend to forget the reason for some of our extended weekends. Having grown complacent, we look forward to leisure, and lose sight of the deeper meaning that these days have been assigned. Today, for example, is Memorial Day. A day to reflect on the terrible price paid by those who have served and died to secure and protect our liberty. When we think of this, many of us think generically of fallen soldiers, and may feel a vague sadness. Unless we have lost loved ones in war, few of us have reason to consider specific soldiers who make up the statistics.

Consider, then, Sullivan Ballou. Born in Rhode Island in 1829, Sullivan spent his years before the war as a public servant. A lawyer, and speaker of the Rhode Island House of Representatives, he was a patriot who enlisted immediately after the Civil War began, a father of 2 young sons, and a husband whose love for his wife should move us all to tears. I've pasted a letter below that he wrote, to his wife Sarah, one of the most famous letters to come from that war.

My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .

I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .

Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness . . .

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again . . .

Sullivan died at the age of 32 a week later, at the first Battle of Bull Run. Remember him, if you have no one else to remember on Memorial Day.

Expectations

Lately, I've had several occasions which have forced me to readjust the expectations that I've set in front of me for what defines my happiness. Well, if I'm honest with myself, that's still a work in progress. Either way, it's obvious that I won't find it as quickly, or as simply, as I had hoped to. I realize that we choose whether or not we're going to be happy, and I still consciously devote myself to that choice. The reality of that choice, and how I bring the result to fruition, have changed.

A month ago, I was propelled by the momentum of newly found personal freedom into believing that, by sheer force of will, I could force every day to be the best day of my life. I believed that, in making the choice, I was creating the result. I've found that this is not completely true. My interpretation of the conscious decision to be happy would lead me to believe that, by doing my laundry and seeing my kids, today was a better day than those on which any of my children were born. A better day than the last day that I kissed someone that I was truly in love with. This cheapens the value of those days which were truly special, and makes the value of my every day life out to be far more than what it really is.

It also falsely elevated the quality of those days which, conscious decision or not, really were days that could have been better. The day that I realized what the reality of my marriage was going to be. The day that I broke my arm as a kid. Any of the days that involved car accidents. Those were not going to be good days, whether I wanted them to or not. At best, they could be seen as days that were the accent to highlight what the truly good days are supposed to be. They were not the best days of my life.

Today was not the best day of my life. And that's okay. Because that day is coming. And that's the lesson that life has been trying to teach me, I think. Rather than trying to focus on forcing every day to be the best day of my life, I should relax, and just let the day be what it is. Instead of wasting my energy in trying to make the day what it wasn't intended to be, I should conserve that energy, and pour it into recognizing the truly special days for what they are. I'll let you all know the next time that a day like that pops up.

Guilt and the Good Man

I recently read "The Kite Runner", by Khaled Hosseini. It was a wonderfully moving story, in which the main character makes a tragic mistake as a boy, and lives with the guilt his entire life, until given an opportunity to atone for it. Two phrases from that book struck me, and really caused me to examine my relationship with myself. "There is a way to be good again." and "A man who has no conscience, no goodness, does not suffer."

I am currently in a wonderful state of flux. I have never been happier in my life. At the same time, my actions are causing great grief to people who love me dearly. Without retreading ground that has already been churned to mud, I will say that I recently decided to end my 12 year marriage. I believed at the time that I had good reasons, and I still believe that. It's been several months now, and I'm starting to set the legal gears in motion and begin the process. I still see my children just about every day, and most of the weekends. I provide for them. I show them a happier me than they have ever seen. The person hurt the most by all of this is their mother.

I am a deeply empathic person. I feel the hurt of others keenly, as though it were my own. To see someone that I care about in so much pain is difficult, and I try to give her what comfort and assurance I can, but obviously that can only go so far. I am, after all, still leaving her without a husband. I have family who are conservative Christians, who believe that I should go back, and try to work it out. I know that if I were to do that, I would be miserable, because I am the only person responsible for my own happiness, and I refuse to put myself back into that situation. Having been raised by conservative Christians, though, I battle guilt. I was raised to believe that adultery was the only acceptable reason to leave a marriage. This model of matrimony, however, breeds miserable couples who suffer in silence when there is no longer an alternative route to happiness than to leave.

This sense of guilt haunts me. Some part of me insists that I feel bad for being this happy, when it so obviously causes the pain of someone else. I can't give in to that instinct, though. I have to own my own happiness, plot my own course to the life that I want to live. I have to learn to accept the fact that, as much as I would like, I can't make everyone in my life happy. Our life is a short, constant stream of the consequences of our actions. I live today by the result of the choices that I have made. For the first time in my life I'm comfortable with who I am. For the first time in my life I can honestly say that I believe myself to be a good man. For the first time in my life, I feel truly happy. The work will be hard, the road will be long, but it's the right road. I have found the way to be good again.

On the shore of Watts Bar Lake

Peace. Tranquility. Woodsmoke and water on the breeze. The constant sound of waves lapping at the shore nearby. The quack of a duck. In this moment, I am full, as full as any man deserves to be. I feel the lightness of it, each moment passing effortlessly, marked only by the measure of my breath. This is what each moment in life should be.