It was odd, filling out the Facebook "I have come to realize" Notes and coming across the statement about my dad. Off the top of my head, I simply wrote "I have come to realize my dad ... was just human."
And, with that, I forgave him. Let go of the anger. Finally realized that after years of angst, pain, disappointment, whatever I thought he was - he was just human.
I wish I'd come to realize that before he'd passed away. That was last summer - on the day he died, I actually wrote in my journal that I didn't know how to have a conversation with him. He was 20 feet away waiting for me to interact with him, and I struggled. There was just too much baggage. And it was too complicated. A shared episode of Stargate or Star Trek was the best we could do to connect (which might explain my love of sci-fi).
It's actually kind of funny - for years I railed against he and my mom for not doing better. For abandoning our emotional needs. Thousands of journal pages on it. Hours and hours of talks with girlfriends.
And, in the end, it was ironically simple - our parents are just human. They do their best. And it might suck. Be far from what we really needed. But in the end, it was their best.
It was when I saw him in that hospital bed that I realized how fragile he was. How maybe all those negative feelings were misplaced. The tallest, biggest man I'd ever known, and he was broken. It was when it was over that I finally asked questions. Really tried to understand him.
And you know, thank God I never had as hard a life as he did. Or as my mom did. Here I write about trying to find meaning at age 37 - yep, I'm lucky it's my biggest problem. And by my age, my mom was bankrupt with three kids, no education, an ex living on the other coast, and a boyfriend whose ex chased her with a gun. I'd better be careful how much I judge.
When my dad was 3 or 4, his mother told him to just play with the dog all day - the dog will make sure you get home, she'd say. Really? Talk about a need to call CPS. Of course he didn't know how to interact with people. He pretty much had the dog. He still found a way to be funny and ornery. By 37, both his parents had died, he'd watched two dreams screach to a halt, had three kids when I'm not sure he ever wanted any. And was divorced.
The great thing about my dad - though of course I couldn't give him credit for this until now - is that at some point in his life, he realized he'd fucked up. He hadn't loved enough. Wasn't going to find any love if he kept going down that same messed up path.
So he changed. It pissed me off actually - why couldn't he change sooner? Why couldn't he be with us like he was with his new wife?
But, you know, at least he changed. I could continue to carry all that anger and tattered baggage, or just say Thank you, God, that he did change. At least he knew - even if he couldn't verbalize it - that his life could be better. He could be better.
He never asked forgiveness. Maybe he didn't care if he got it. Or he hoped by being better and different, that it would come in time.
At his service, I heard people who saw him every day at work talk about his big personality, dry wit and tough demeanor. Some of the things they said he was best known for - speaking his mind when no one else had the courage to - are the traits in myself I am most proud of. I just hadn't realized where I got them.
And actually, it reminded me of older men at my work who I have incredible respect for - maybe subconsciously they reminded me of the man I never knew well enough.
So regardless of what people can give us or what we can give others or what we expect of ourselves or others, we really are just human. It's not an excuse. It's not meant to trivialize.
But, ironically, at a time when we flail about looking for meaning and purpose and answers, maybe some answers are as easy as 'we're just human.'
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