Thank you.

It took me a long time before I could say that to my step-father.

The Cot

We lived in a small 2-bedroom apartment until I was 14 years old. It served us very well, most of the time. One bedroom was used by my parents and the other I shared with my sister. We had bunk beds because there was no way 2 single beds were going to fit in the room. There was a period of time when one of our relatives stayed with us, so she shared that bedroom with my sister during that time. I slept on a cot, set up in the short hallway connecting the living room and the bedrooms. During the day, I spent so much of my time running around and playing that I could have slept comfortably on a bed of nails, so the lack of comfort of a cot was not an issue.

What was an issue was the fighting I recall coming from the living room while I was supposed to be sleeping. They were only 12 feet away, but being around the corner where they couldn’t see me must have offered an illusion that I wasn’t there or that I was sound asleep. The darkness in the hallway did little to mute the arguing. I pretended to be sleeping, not wanting to get involved in any way. I am absolutely certain that my mom would have done or said nothing to me, but I wasn’t so certain about my step-father. I would just lay there, wanting it to stop, but with no ability to make it stop.

I do recall some of the topics. The common topic was my step-father’s girlfriends. This didn’t make any sense to me at all. How can he have girlfriends when he was married? There were other topics as well, but I don’t recall them. Sometimes there were other people in the apartment, making the arguments that much more intense. I just laid there, eyes tightly shut, feigning sleep.

I watched, observed and absorbed.

Bringing Things Together

When I was 10 years old my mom and father split up. Looking back it was the best thing for my mom and ultimately for all of us. Up to the time he left, my step-father was the disciplinarian. That seemed to be his sole role. My own memories of his dealings with me didn’t seem too bad. Years later I would hear stories from other family members about the extremes he used when doling out my punishments.

After he left our family, his role as the authoritarian continued. I would only see him when I was due for some lesson. Up to age 16 I got into trouble frequently. Sometimes we would say we were sleeping at other friend’s houses and stay out overnight. One night we decided to camp out in a 45 floor building that was partly built. We got caught. On another one of these sleep-outs, we broke into a bunch of Wonder Bread trucks, looking for pastries and goodies to feast upon. We got caught. Another night I was staying with an adult friend (he was my Big Brother). I was 15 years old and after he fell asleep, I took his car for a joyride, driving 70mph through the streets of St. Catharines. Eventually the car ran out of gas… and I got caught.

You’d think I was a dumb delinquent, getting caught all the time, but there was probably so much more to it. Most people do not recognize the drivers behind what they do or say, least of all a young teenager. Like many behaviours driven by forces and influences completely unaware to me, my actions seemed to be serving a purpose. I would do something deemed needing correction, mom would call dad in and he would “correct” me. Even though I was getting beat up and beat down, there was something else going on. For those moments, however uncomfortable, the family would be together, my dad would be around.

Even more, I watched, observed and absorbed.

Emotional Lightning

Around age 15 or 16, the pressure of internalizing all I that was watching, observing and absorbing started to build cracks in my foundation. I couldn’t identify what I was feeling, so I didn’t recognize what was flashing out of me – bolts of anger, frustration and depression with the trailing thunder meant to create maximum impact with the least amount of time. In a very short period of time, the pressurized container emptied, leaving an even larger problem.

That quick escape of molten emotion left behind a smoldering vacuum at my core, a tank which I would spend years trying to fill. Drugs and alcohol would at least partly fill the reservoir temporarily, but the tank had leaks and would never stay topped up with these deceiving promises of fulfillment. What seemed pleasurable, like drinking way too much, too fast and too often, became a chore to take away the imploding pressure of this emotional vacuum. I wanted to stop, but the drive to fill the void persisted … maybe the next time the tank will stay filled, yet it never did.

Through this cycle, despair would inject its influence. So viciously caught in this cycle of filling, emptying, filling, emptying, I found it hard to see beyond the present moment and borrow a piece of hope from the future. In some of those moments, it simply seemed easier to leave, easier to die and stop the seemingly endless spiral into the darkness. Fortunately, there was a little piece deep within me that wanted me to live, but it was dormant, waiting quietly on the sidelines, watching the internal turmoil unfold. It did show when called upon. It helped me reach out to someone a couple of hours after I took hundreds of aspirins and sleeping pills one night. It also helped me reach back and find my footing on the dresser that I had just stepped off in that cold, dark garage.

During one of the many stays in psychiatric wards, I was assigned to a social worker named Carl. I saw Carl very regularly until I was 20 years old. He was very influential in helping to start sealing the leaks in my emotional vacuum. The seeds he helped to plant would eventually grow, slowly giving me more internal strength. I was lucky to have someone like that on my side to help turn the tide.

Getting to Thank You

So now to say “thank you” to my step-father. First, a thank-you for nothing. Thank you for not being there when I was a little boy when I needed you. Thanks for opening up an opportunity for me to deal with alcohol abuse for nearly 20 years. Thanks for helping to create an emotional environment inside of me that was so toxic that death seemed like a viable option. And no, I am not being sarcastic. I thank you for these because these dusty paths to where I am now were constructed largely by you, and I love where I am now (but there are easier paths to here!)

Next, I thank you for everything. The void in your shattering infidelity taught me relationship integrity, and I never cheated on anyone I was connected to (dating or marriage) ever. Also, thank you for helping me to be a better father to my own son, for showing me that there are two sides to a hand: one side that provides discipline (figuratively, in my role as a father), but more importantly, the other side that provides the guidance and nurturing a young boy needs.

George, my step-father, died a few years ago. Even though we only lived 10 minutes from each other, we saw each other only 2-3 times in the 20 years before his death. I remember when my brother-in-law called me to tell me that he passed away, simply saying “I’ve got some bad news. George is dead”. I felt bad at first because I thought he was talking about my Uncle George. Then it dawned on me that he was referring to my step-father. I was surprised at how little I felt either way – no relief, but no real sadness either, beyond that which I would feel upon hearing of the passing of anyone else. I will never be able to say thanks to him in person, but that is not the point. What is more important is that I am at the point of saying thanks to him, wherever he may be.

I watched, observed and absorbed. Then I eventually grew.

Thank you, George. Thank you, Dad.