Yesterday afternoon as I waited at the bus stop, I texted my dad. I never call straight away because I never know what version of him will answer. Will he be cheerful and well connected to the present moment? Or will he be angry with someone who hurt him 8 years ago? The two emotional states could not be more different. So I test the waters.
“How have you been doing? I’m out getting some books at a book store right now but maybe I could call you later today or tomorrow?”
I usually send something of that structure. A greeting that centers my concern around his well being so he knows I care. A small update on my own life so he knows I want him to be involved with me. And an offer to initiate conversation at a good time for both of us.
And then I wait.
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Today I wake up face down, encased in blankets, one cat curled up next to my hip and the other purring into my ear on my pillow. In some remarkable feat of flexibility, I manage to stay in roughly the same position while extending my arm backward and outward to grab my phone off the nightstand to my right. Before both eyes are even fully open, I am mindlessly scrolling through Facebook. One more person has reacted to a spiritual post I typed up yesterday about my longing for the faith of my youth. A total of 8 people reacted to that post, a post I wrote sincerely in hopes for encouragement and connection from others. I am friends with 455 people, most of whom are Christians, and 8 people took the time to read and respond. I am offended as both a writer and a Christian by the lack of engagement. I am taking it personally. The wheels of rumination start in my head again.
Was it just bad writing and that’s why people didn’t read it?
No it’s probably because I post too much and people think I’m annoying.
Actually, I bet people didn’t even read it because it’s not a gif and it’s more than a single sentence in length.
If I were a more attractive person and had a better photo with it, I bet people would read it.
I cycle through the lengthy analysis, making myself the center of other people’s response or lack or response to me. First insecurity – the lack of engagement was my fault. Then anger based on an assumption – people didn’t react because they are too lazy or too simple to take the time to understand my depth of emotion and insight. And then back to the source – insecurity again. I conclude that people didn’t like my post because I myself am unlikable.
I unravel myself from my blankets and try to cast off the thoughts as I make my way to the shower. I am self-aware enough to know that my thoughts are irrational. I – and by extension, my social media posts – am not the center of other people’s experiences. And even if they did read it and have some aversion to what I said, or worse, an aversion to who I am, then that is not my problem to control. What is my problem is my own insecurity and self-loathing and how my compulsive need for external validation motivates me to overshare my internal processes in hopes of love and connection. And if there is one person who could understand and articulate that underlying need, it would be my dad.
My dad has become increasingly unwell in the years since my parents divorced, but there was never I time I can remember him being truly emotionally healthy. From a young age, I remember him coming home from work and venting to my mom about conflict after conflict he had at work with coworkers and supervisors. He made comments about no one listening to him. He held grudges for years over an unkind word or weird look. He felt abandoned by people he wanted to befriend but who never reciprocated. Aside from a few hunting buddies, he never really had friends. He had some acquaintances, but we all know the difference. We all know that a deep need for connection and support cannot be found in passersby.
The other thing I remember and think about often is that tragically, at time when my dad was especially emotionally fragile and spiritually hungry, the church hurt him as well. Misguided and conflicted as I understand him to be now, he truly was trying. He wanted to get connected with the church. And he wanted advice on how to be a better husband and father. I think some people did try to help, although they were not licensed mental health counselors and really didn’t have the resources or experience. But others made him feel like a burden. They avoided his calls. During meetings, they blamed him and overcorrected him instead of asking questions and letting him share what he was going through. They acted like he was crazy, and I think he internalized that reaction more than anything.
I’m not saying that is why he struggles the way he does even today, but I know that season was a significant marker in his timeline of unraveling. He already didn’t have a community of friends, but within a decade, he then lost his marriage and his relationship with his kids. And even though a lot of that was the result of his own choices, he had to wake up everyday more alone than ever. And I truly think he could not handle it. It was too painful. So no wonder he drank and still drinks. No wonder he ruminates on events from years and years ago. No wonder he gets angry and goes on the attack. Because he is responding to the pain of loneliness and rejection and his own powerlessness over the events of the past. I understand it – and am terrified by it – because I catch myself doing the same thing.
Even as I type this, I fear that whatever it is inside me that compels me to dwell and share my deepest thoughts publicly on social media in hopes of connecting is a symptom of whatever hurt tortures my dad internally. I too have struggled making and keeping friends for most of my life. Like my dad, I am emotional and thoughtful and want to share that for others. I long for acceptance and connection with my peers and will go to great lengths to earn it. And, much like my dad, when I share and am not accepted – when I reach out and no one grabs on – it sparks a fierce anger that is really masking pain. I fear this is a progressive ailment, that even though I can stop the rumination now and redirect, maybe someday I won’t be able to. Even though I’m sober and hopeful for genuine community today, maybe someday I’ll let go and turn to the bottle again. That is truly my deepest fear. Because I know if I do reach that point, I will lose everything, too, even my own mind.
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As I type this, my dad has yet to respond to my text, and it’s been almost 24 hours. And it’s not because he’s ignoring me. No matter how he is, he is never silent when prompted. No. His silence means he is not doing well. It means he’s not there to answer me. It means he’s lost in his head again.
Deep Words of Life 