In a Million Lifetimes

A Letter to My Father

I have been writing these letters to you in my head almost from the moment you died. There is no real theme, or end-goal with them; they are just my way of saying the things I would say were you still here. You are the best friend I have ever had so, of course I would want to talk to you about anything and everything happening in my life.

I never bothered writing them down before because I knew some would worry that I was “working through things” and offer unsolicited advice. And you, more than anyone, know how much that makes me want to throat-punch a motherfucker. I’ve learned to rein in that urge. That, coupled with my wife being gone for a long, long time, made me feel that now is the time to get the words in front of my eyes and out of my head.

But too, I wanted to put these words out into the world for people navigating their own shit. Not just grief, but all of the cochinada that throws at us all.

There’s this kid I know and love who got some of my words in my shitty hand-writing tattooed onto their body. The tattoo artist had to make my writing a little more legible (I am so glad you’re not here to give me shit about that), but still — my words. After some imposter syndrome passed, I realized that sometimes my words do matter. If these letters can make anyone feel less crazy, less alone, and closer to centered even for a moment… well dad, I think we will have done a great thing.

You want to know something I didn’t expect when I started this little endeavor last week? I didn’t expect the usual nagging voice in my head — that little fucker that reminds me of every single shortcoming, mistake, and failure in a lifetime full of shortcomings, mistakes, and failures — I didn’t expect that voice to becomes so dimmed. I did not expect that writing to you would bring me your voice in my head.

Your voice is so much better for my soul.

In case I haven’t told you, and just in case you can read this over my shoulder from wherever you are, I want you to know: you were never anything less than everything I needed in a father. I was a hard child and you were a safe place to land. I was too serious so goddamn always and you did everything you could to encourage me to hold onto my childhood. I didn’t know how to tell you that the childhood was the hardest part without making you feel like it was somehow your fault.

That thing that was broken inside of me wasn’t because of you. The misfortune of your vicinity made you the bearer of the brunt of my anger. I will always be sorry for that.

I told you all of this when you visited me in Ohio. I am so fucking glad I got that opportunity.

You told me to stop talking because you knew. You knew when I was four and beating on you to get away from me because I wanted what I didn’t have. You knew all the times I ran away that I was running from the one thing I couldn’t ever get away from - myself. You knew when I chose my step-monster over you because you understood that, even though she was fucking awful to me, she was at least there. And you knew the day I moved out — the day after graduating high school.

You ate a lifetime of shit served by a mini-you.

I know at times it broke you. But you hid those as best you could.

When I tell people that my dad is the strongest person I have ever known it isn’t because you can beat the shit out of their dad (which, let’s be honest, you could totally do), it’s because you had the hardest son in the history of the world to raise. A boy who would have permanently broken any other type of parent. I was not easy. I was rarely kind to you. I wanted so fucking much to make everyone else feel the cavern of empty within me. I wanted to be loved. Then when I was loved I wanted it to come from someone else.

God, I was a bitch of a child.

So when I finally called you that one day not long after moving out to thank you for making me so much stronger than any of my friends seemed to be — needing mommy to help them set up their dorms, send them money, wipe their ass in college — I was mostly fine.

And a bit of a pretentious twat, apparently.

I would say we fought, but let’s be honest: you were letting me think we were fighting when I had already seen you snap a grown man’s let in half with one punch and put another man in the hospital when you beat him with your forearm because you had already broken your hand on his face.

So, thanks for not killing me. There were plenty of times when you should have because, Jesus I was a little shit.

And while you may not have killed me when you probably should have, you did let me fly, fall, and throw myself against any number of hard surfaces. You were there to pick me up, kick me in my ass when I needed it, dust me off and hug me when I needed that, and reel me back in when I needed that, too. I didn’t realize you were letting me try and potentially fail in the safest possible way.

You never did something for me, though. No, that was a solid black line you never crossed and sometimes I hated you for it. But that day I finally called you to thank you… it all made sense.

In a million lifetimes, dad, I would pick you again every single time.