You’re Doing Great Today

Vol. 2, Issue 27

Even though he's only two and a half, I recognize my firstborn son's sensitivity as my own. Sometimes he'll smirk at me right before he throws a truck at my head and it's the same face I'd make at people right before I did something terrible. His tantrums are intense: He spins out and throws himself onto the ground or sometimes flounces face-first into the couch. In addition to all the other new fears of parenthood, I worry my poor Ozzy's brain is wired like mine and he'll have the same long, self-destructive road ahead.

I think this is normal for every parent, but I struggle with the idea that my son (and all my children, really) will be preternaturally fucked up. I asked my friend Clancy, who's a father of four, if he ever felt guilty about his lifetime of alcoholism and suicide attempts, jails and ex-wives, and all the rest. Does that make him fearful that his children are destined to be troubled?

"Yes. Of course. And they will be. As in Philip Larkin's poem, This Be The Verse, they fuck you up, your mum and dad.

So they'll be in therapy. But then everyone should be in therapy. It's all those other genes or predilections–the weirdo and wasteoid ones–that scare me the most.

"So you know, the particular anxieties we inflict on our children were also inflicted on us. We can only try to do better by being honest with them about our struggles and erring on the side of kindness and whatever sanity we can scrap together," Clancy said.

But does it have to be that way? What if somehow they turned out normal (if there is such a thing)?

****

Every morning I write down my fears in my journal right before my gratitude list. It's important for me to know if my head's in the right place before the day begins. Lately it's been very virus-focused. There is another consistent headspace where my life is a librium-induced version of An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge and at any moment I'll awaken back in a small sweaty bed in a Florida rehab: No family, no dog, no newsletter, nothing but wasted time and an empty heart.

My favorite picture of Ozzy and me is this one on our bookshelf. He's probably five or six months old and climbing on me with a big dumb smile and I'm hugging him–holding on to him, really–with closed eyes and a look of relief. I remember it so clearly, that hug, because I felt so lucky. After every reprimand of my son, I walk over to him and hug him tightly just like in the picture. Under my breath I apologize for who I am. What's that saying about shame?

Guilt says I made a mistake, shame says I am the mistake.

Sometimes, I wonder if every time I go to a 12-step group I'm also keeping a seat warm for him.

****

I couldn't sleep when I was younger so I'd try to get my parents to let me sleep in their bed–or just next to their bed, even–but it became too disruptive in their lives so they would lock their door. I'd knock and knock, but they wouldn't respond. I'd hear them rustle in their beds, fraught a bit with their wish to ignore me as they tried to get one decent night's sleep. I'd give up and go back to my room and endure the anxieties of the night. Sometimes, I drug my pillow and nuzzled up outside their door like a pathetic cat who won’t go away.

I'd be okay as long as one of my parents–usually my mom–laid on the couch to watch late night TV. I'd try to fall asleep before she came up to bed, or else it'd be one of those terror-filled lock-the-door nights. The whining saxophone at the end of Saturday Night Live credits would set me off into a full-on panic because it signaled I'd soon be wide awake and all alone.

That summer changed me for life–something inside me became twisted and defiant. After the summer ended, there was a big hole where all the swirling panic lived–spaces that could easily (only) be soothed by chemicals and chaos.

****

Because I’d never figured out how to go on to bed like a normal person, I spent most of my 20s and 30s avoiding bedrooms as much as possible, laying on the couch with my eyes closed and the TV on in the background. Sometimes I'd sip Nyquil through a straw and fall asleep with cigarettes on my belly. I even snorted melatonin a few times. Tylenol PM. Trazodone. Xanax, of course. These weren't guaranteed to work, but it was the best I could do. No more locked doors for me.

****

When we began to sleep-train Ozzy, he'd beg and plead for us to come get him out of that crib, and my head would go right back to those terrible nights I spent that summer locked outside my parent's bedroom door. "Go to sleep!" I can still hear my father's voice. He’d unlock the door bald and shirtless, a charging gorilla shouting get away.

I am the mistake.

Eventually, both Julieanne and I caved, but for me it only took a few whimpers before I'd head to his room and sweep him up into my arms to take him back to our room. We co-slept with him for almost all of his first year and the beginning of his second.

We–I–had to learn how to let him put himself to sleep, to cry it out or find a way to shut down his frustration, his anger, his brain so he could get some rest, so we all could get some rest. It was tough, and letting him go to bed by himself when there's a perfectly warm spot in the middle between mom and dad just felt cruel to everyone involved. I don’t want to ever have to lock our door or for him to be afraid we will. I think that played a big part in messing me up.

****

When I call my Al-Anon sponsor with a spiritual problem–or any problem, really–he listens in such a calming way that it feels like an unreserved embrace. Even if I ramble too much he lets me know he hears me no matter what. He waits for me to finish then he actually says "What I'm hearing..." and, God, sometimes that's all I'll need. He "Mmmhmms" and "Uh-huhs" at all the right spots and then comes the "I hear you" and man, I tear up.

There's something else he tells me–regardless of what my malady is or how frustrated I get with a higher power and all my lousy fears–that just elevates me: "Well I think you're doing great." And he means it, too. I know he means it because I feel a surge through my body as I look out the window towards the sky and know everything is going to be okay. It's amazing how it works on me every single time. He's no prophet either; he's just someone who's decent and knows how to be kind.

Sometimes I future-trip and see these kids who will suffer at some point and I steel myself for those moments. Life is both dreadful and wonderful for everyone, but I must remember that me being fucked up can potentially help them one day, however they turn out. That's the wonderful part about this lot: if you do the work to dig yourself out, you can help someone else someday feel less alone, less lost. I'm learning that if I have compassion for me I can also have compassion for others. What a concept.

****

And that's what I've adapted for my children. When I pick up Ozzy and take him to bed I kiss him and, no matter what, I tell him he did great. "You did great today, son. I love you." And same thing for my daughter, Ivey, because she had some trouble sleeping, too. I lay her down and put a blanket over her soft round body and I say "You're doing great, Ivey." And now here’s Levon who just arrived.

You're doing great, son. Truly. That’s the best we can do right now to break the cycle.

– AJD

This is The Small Bow newsletter. We send it out every Tuesday morning and (sometimes) Friday afternoon. It's fun and helpful to talk to other weirdos and wasteoids. Please FORWARD it along to anyone you think would enjoy it.

If you'd like to submit Fan Mail to us about some of your own recovery experiences hit us up here: editors@thesmallbow.com

Our feature archive can be found here.

If you'd like to check in with me personally, I can be reached at: ajd@thesmallbow.com.