Merry Christmas, Forgiveness and Grace

by

A.J. Daulerio

Time to throw away the poison.

*****

Vol. 4, Issue Two

A few weeks ago, I forgave my asshole father–big spiritual forgiveness that came upon me like a ghost typhoon, and it knocked me sideways. And this forgiveness didn't happen in person or via Facetime–there was no verbal communication at all. It just happened.

Here's how it happened: I went to my usual Friday Zoom AA meeting, and one dude shared about What It Was Like with his abusive father, and usually when I hear this type of share I will cycle through a highlight reel of my own father's greatest hits: his cruelty, his bullying, his ignorance. I grab hold of these memories nice and tight–I mean a real rodeo grip–because that used to give me relief. Swift, hateful, luxurious relief.

But I listened to this other troubled man–this sober man with five years and strength–share about his dickhead dad who beat the shit out of him when he was a little boy, and I waited for the usual surge in me but, nope, nada. Those memories of my father being an asshole are still there–but I just left them alone. Woooosh.

Here's a better way to explain it, maybe: I was a bad smoker. Pack a day, sometimes two, for close to 20 years. Sometimes when I was broke, I would dig out butts from an overflowing ashtray. One time I went looking for butts on the sidewalk and picked one up. And now? I don't ever want to smoke again. If there were an entire pack of Marlboro Lights on this table right now, I wouldn't touch it. Not a chance.

That's how I feel about the resentment against my father. It's insane that I hung on to it–that I needed it for so long–because it would have killed me, maybe faster than the cigarettes. 

*****

When I first walked into an Al-Anon men's meeting–a churchy-looking building that's home to a Theosophical Society–it was by accident. I thought it was an AA meeting. But I enjoyed it, so I went back again on a different day, one where the focus was more ACA–the Adult Children of Alcoholics program. I didn't feel like I qualified, but the men in the room were welcoming and kind, and they dressed intimidatingly, stylishly well and some of them were actors or surfers or both and they encouraged me to stick around and try six meetings before I made a decision.

Once I heard this portion of The Problem read out loud, I realized I didn’t need six meetings. I needed to stay:

"[W]e lived life from the standpoint of victims. Having an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, we preferred to be concerned with others rather than ourselves. We got guilt feelings when we stood up for ourselves rather than giving in to others. Thus, we became reactors, rather than actors, letting others take the initiative. We were dependent personalities, terrified of abandonment, willing to do almost anything to hold on to a relationship in order not to be abandoned emotionally. Yet we kept choosing insecure relationships because they matched our childhood relationship with alcoholic or dysfunctional parents."

Wow. I qualified, but who was my qualifier? I never fully believed my childhood was dysfunctional. But my parents–especially my dad–had me convinced that I was The Problem from a very young age to almost middle age: I was too anxious. I was too depressed. Not confident enough. Not married. No kids. No health insurance. I dressed sloppily. My hair was too long. My friends were more successful. Could they get you a job? I should take golf lessons. I should become a sportswriter. I should leave home. I should move out of New York City and come back home. I made things harder than they needed to be. But I took shortcuts. I'm in too much debt. I'm not ready for this. Or that. Or anything yet. Wait until you're ready, A.J. You're not ready. When will you be ready? You're a loser. People think you're an asshole. We wish people didn't think you were an asshole. Why can't you write something nice about us? 

I believed it–all of it.

And the first thing I heard–the first thing I needed to hear–from some of the handsome old men in AF 1’s in that spooky Al-Anon room was it wasn't my fault. I never knew how much I needed to hear something like that. That Good Will Hunting shit. 

*****

As I dug into the ACA program and gained more clarity about how my dad treated me most of my life, I wanted to physically hurt him. Like, I wanted to bodyslam him the next time he raised his voice at me or my mom. I could never do that when I was 70 pounds, and he was jabbing his finger into my bony chest and making me cry. But if I bodyslammed him, I might kill him? I didn't want to go to jail.

Three years ago, he and my mother visited our Los Angeles home, and he spent some of this time yelling at Wells Fargo on the phone. My mother told him to put the phone down–he told her to shut up. I asked him politely not to do that in front of his grandchildren. He looked down at them, toddling and squealing, and then he looked back at me. "They won't remember it," that son of a bitch said. And I lost it. I got up, grabbed his phone, and threatened to throw him off the deck. 

When I went to the Al-Anon meeting the next day, I relayed this story to all the guys in that cuckoo Theosophy room. "It felt…good?" I said. They all laughed. They were so happy for me. These were my brothers now. We all laugh at our strange darkness.

And that was it, I thought. Healed! I finally could stand up to him. I fantasized about inviting him back to our home once again. I imagined him pulling his stupid rolling suitcase up the stoop to our front door and then I'd greet him just before he stepped into the house. "Don't ever come back here. You will never see your grandchildren again." And then I’d slam the door right in his goddamn face.

WHAM. 

So fucked up.

*****

I have written about my father many times in this newsletter, most of it about the cosmic irony of his dementia intersecting (and interfering) with all my Al-Anon/ACA work. Here I was examining all these painful memories as his memories were being erased. I was learning how to re-parent myself and stick up for myself just as he was floating away.

But when my parents visited my family this past June, I wanted to let it all go since it was, more than likely, one of the last times my father would recognize me. But I didn't let it all go. The truth is it's not a finger-snapping process. The "it" doesn't disappear at my command. Imagine a world if that were true? It's not this one. 

All this time, I thought that forgiveness and some sliver of peace would only come after he died, or maybe after he and I had formally sat down together perhaps at opposite ends of a long, wooden table for a spiritual arbitration hearing, overseen by a mediator. I'd submit my best grievances on a piece of paper and hand it to the mediator who would give it to my father, and I'd wait as my father examined them. He'd shake his head, cross his arms like he always did, showing his wordless displeasure as he always did. Maybe he'd eventually push a check across the table. And then I'd push it back and say, "That's not enough. There will never be enough." But the mediator would make us move on. "A pox on both your houses," he'd say.

But that wasn't how it went at all. Like I told you, all that resentment left me a few weeks ago when I heard that lovely man’s share. I’m pretty sure it was the cumulative effect of that crazy Theosophy lodge, and honest therapy, and sobriety and writing about my dad shit constantly over and over again. I chopped that wood and the tree finally fell.

I told my Al-Anon sponsor I forgave my dad, and he was thrilled. Then I told my wife. My therapist gasped and clasped her hands.

It’s so weird. The anger and heartbreak and vengeance morphed into a love–an explosive love for him and myself. I don’t want to kill him anymore. I will be sad when he dies. All those bad feelings and memories shrank or vanished, just like an imaginary friend.