Chapter 15: Aftermath
“I have every bit of our conversations saved.
If you want to pretend you’re not part of this problem I will ensure it is known you are.
We are getting rid of what we don’t need and looking for places to go.
But I’m telling you this now.
You will never see any of us again.
Your actions and behaviors are unacceptable and spending money on people does not put you above anyone
else.
That is not love.
It’s a way of trying to buy us.
Sorry that is not how this works.
Now you will live your life alone.
All because I won’t bow down and kiss your ass.
I hope you find happiness in it although we both know you won’t.
Enjoy your pride and ego.
May it serve you well.”
Those were the words I sent my dad in a text message.
At the time, I thought they might be my last words to him.
Somewhere inside, though, I didn’t really believe that. Part of me believed his demand that we leave was
another expression of anger that he would eventually regret.
But I was furious.
I was tired of feeling as though the stability of my home and my children’s lives could be threatened
whenever emotions boiled over.
I love my dad.
That did not change how angry I was with him.
And it did not change the fact that, in that moment, I believed our relationship had reached its breaking
point.
After sending the text, I immediately began clearing the house of anything we didn’t need.
I reduced my clothing to a single suitcase.
Anything unnecessary was gone.
Later that day, I began looking for somewhere else to live.
Whatever happened next, I did not want my children continuing to live inside this chaos.
It seemed I had little choice left.
My mom contacted me later and asked whether I was okay.
I unloaded everything I was feeling onto her.
I didn’t feel as though I had anyone else I could talk to about what was happening.
My wife already had enough on her plate. My friends wouldn’t understand without years of context.
I felt as though the burden was mine to carry, and I was beginning to crack beneath it.
I had two children who needed me to be emotionally present.
My wife needed me.
And I felt responsible for my parents as well.
I loved them. I wanted to help them.
But I was exhausted.
“I’m trying my best to keep my anger under control but it’s so hard.
I’m trying to remain logical but it’s so hard when faced with so much illogical.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Nothing but this small little family I have left.
Nothing but these wonderful kids I have.
But I’m tired.
And I don’t want to be angry anymore.
So I’m going to worry about my little family and just keep moving forward.
It’s all I can do.”
That was what I told my mom.
My dad eventually contacted me and said he respected my decision.
That was all he said.
I wasn’t ready to leave it there.
I continued pressing him with the questions and frustrations I had been carrying.
Eventually, the argument gave way to an actual conversation.
More than anything, I wanted to feel heard.
I wanted to feel as though I finally had a voice in my own family.
We began talking about my mom and what we believed she needed.
One of the first things we agreed on was that social media had become harmful for her and that we wanted
to limit her access to it.
I also tried to get my dad to approach her differently.
“Just please try and be gentle with her.
I understand that it is extremely frustrating.
She has the mindset of a child.
Behaving like a child.
With the emotional range of a child.”
Those were the words I used at the time.
Looking back, I would describe it differently now.
What I was trying to communicate was that anger, insults, and confrontation were not reaching her.
I knew this because I had made a similar mistake with my wife.
During the worst period of her eating disorder, I sometimes became angry and cruel in an attempt to break
through what I saw at the time as distorted thinking.
Occasionally, it seemed to work. For a moment, I would feel as though I had reached the person I
remembered.
But it never lasted.
The behavior would return, followed by my anger, followed by another confrontation.
It became a cycle of anger and bitterness.
Watching my dad interact with my mom, I felt as though I was watching a version of my own mistakes being
repeated.
That realization forced me to continue examining myself.
I had always thought of myself as someone willing to acknowledge my faults and take responsibility when I
was wrong.
Yet I was also beginning to recognize something uncomfortable:
I frequently felt superior to the people around me.
Smarter.
More understanding.
More rational.
The contradiction was becoming impossible for me to ignore.
Something in the way I saw myself—and the world around me—was beginning to change.
I didn’t fully understand it yet.
I am not a particularly religious person, though I do believe in God and that our lives have purpose.
What I was beginning to understand was much simpler:
I am not special.
I am not better than anyone else.
I was simply beginning to learn how I wanted to spend my time and energy.