Shattering The Mirror

When I look in the mirror, I see my dad.  It’s hard to ignore it.  My facial structure, my eyes, the thinning hair line (I fortunately still have more on top than he did), even some of my facial movements are his.  I see so much of him…and I it hurts to see it.  But it’s not the look that causes me pain.  It’s what that look represents.

My father and I had a difficult relationship for 49 years.  It remained difficult until he passed last year at the age of 75.  We were never close.  My Dad was not the type of person to reach out and connect with family or mend fences.  During his last 15 years, my dad mostly chose to stay in his apartment and not venture out. Eventually his physical condition made it impossible for him to get around without assistance.  

I would check in on him from time to time.  I would call him on Father’s Day.  I would bring my kids to see him for Thanksgiving, Christmas and his birthday.  We would talk about the movies he was watching.  We would talk cars.  We dabbled a little in political discussion.  We would also discuss what was happening in football or baseball.  Sometimes we would talk Basketball, but this was a sore subject for me.  (I will come back to that.)  But we mainly talked to simply pass the time.  To go through the motions.  To check the box. 

We never connected deeply.  Dad avoided any subject that could potentially create pain for two reasons.  First, he was always in physical pain most of the time.  And second, he was “allergic” to pain.  I mean, who likes pain?  Nobody does.  But my dad, he avoided it at every turn from all aspects of his life.  Physical, mental, and spiritual.  He was never able to face pain and overcome it.

I have always believed that some of that pain he would avoid was derived from our relationship.  I think this was why we simply talked and never really connected.  Dad and I had a very tumultuous relationship most of our lives together.  For many years my father was emotionally abusive.  I really don’t know if my father ever realized that the abuse was happening, but I believe he had a sense of the damage it created later in life.  I think he understood how large a rift it created between us.  He didn’t know how to face that discussion and try to heal the pain between us.  As a result, he avoided it and the possible pain it would dredge up.

The catalyst for much of the abuse I experienced centered around sports.  My dad was a big jock in high school.  He played football, basketball and baseball trying to earn All-American status.  He dreamed of his son becoming an All-American sports player and earn a lucrative scholarship to a big-time college.  Perhaps he was also wanting that proud dad status as icing on the cake?

When I was about 6 years old, I came home from school after seeing a sign about sign-ups for baseball and said I wanted to sign up.  Little did I know, this was the moment where things really went sideways for my relationship with my dad.  He did exactly what every great dad would do.  He became intimately involved in my budding baseball career.  He worked with me to play catch, field grounders, and swing a bat.  This all looks good from the outside.  But what really happened was a textbook case of how not to use negative reinforcement.  Whenever I would make a mistake, my father was brutal.  He would make fun of me in the worst overexaggerated way he could think of.  He would call me a girl.  He would scream and yell at me.  His abusive creativity was endless.  I quickly grew to not only dislike playing baseball but also the experience with my dad.

One summer day on a trip to visit family in Arizona, my dad put me, my mom and my sister in the car and we drove to the batting cages to give me a chance to practice.  On the way, we passed by a go-kart place.  I told my mom and dad that I really wanted to go see it.  My dad promised to take all of us there after batting practice.

At the batting cages, I did terrible.  I was not hitting anything.  Dad fell into his usual making funny faces and exaggerating my moves every time I screwed up. This went on for a while until my dad finally said I swing like a girl.  I had finally had enough and for the first time I lashed out at my dad by looking him in the eyes and screaming “I hate you!”

I’m sure this hurt my dad.  I look back on it now and imagine if my kid said that to me.  I probably would have considered this a wakeup call and maybe I should evaluate why my son lashed out like this.  But that is not my dad.  He decided to end practice right there, pack us all up into the car and start driving.  You would think that would be the end of it.  Unfortunately, no.  My dad did keep his promise and took us to the go-kart place I wanted to go to.  But only my dad, mom and sister got to go see them.  My dad locked me in the car and left me there to “think about what I said.”  

Let’s jump forward a number of years and revisit why basketball was a touchy subject for me and my dad. When I was 14 and a freshman in high school, my father still had his vision of his “All-American” son in his mind.  My dad heard that basketball try-outs were happening.  My dad also knew that listening to music was something I enjoyed in my spare time.  I previously told dad that I had been dreaming of one of those nice hi-fi rack stereo systems that had the dual tape deck, equalizer, tower speakers, and the latest technology that had just come out…something called a CD player.

Well, my dad knew the perfect way to get me “inspired” to play basketball.  He sat down with me and devised a contract of sorts.  If I agreed to play 4 years of high school basketball, he promised to buy me that brand new stereo I wanted.  Well, I knew nothing about basketball, and I was hesitant.  My dad assured me that it was easy and that because I was tall, I would do great.  This didn’t reassure me at all.  However, I was blinded by the vision of a brand-new stereo in my room.  I agreed to his terms.

I will briefly sum up the experience to save you the same torture I experienced.  I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn let alone a basket.  My teammates hated me.  At one point they broke one of my fingers knocking me out for half the season.  My father even showed up to practice and physically threatened the kid who broke my finger.  Yeah, this did not help my relationship with my teammates.  Once I started playing in games during the second half of the season, I got very little time on the court and only made 2 points (yeah, I finally got one basket in the last game of the season.  It was a brick, but the brick actually made it in.)

When the end of the season arrived, my father was not only disappointed he was angry.  As a result, dad decided that I would still play the remaining 3 years of basketball I committed to.  But that shiny new hi-fi stereo that I wanted was no longer happening.  He said I sucked so bad and didn’t try hard enough that I no longer deserved it.  But I still had to hold up my end of the contract and play.

This moment defined my relationship with my dad.  I lost all trust in him.  I could no longer look at him and believe anything he said to me.  I may not have really hated him at the batting cages years before, but this one event pretty much created a giant wedge between us.  The following year my father was away for several days which coincided with basketball try-outs.  I hung around school late in the library until try-outs had finished.  I then proceeded to take the late bus home.  My mom asked how try-outs went.  I lied saying I tried out and I didn’t make it.  This was my way of ending the contract and perhaps even take a little revenge.

Looking and seeing my dad each time in mirror brings this to light.  This represents a choice we both made to never address this.  To ignore it and never face the challenge to heal.  But when I look in the mirror, this isn’t the only choice that comes to mind.  I am reminded of how my dad handled adversity in general through his life.  Particularly the last 15-20 years of his life.  Dad pretty much accepted his fate and allowed life to walk all over him in the end.  Dad would seek out comfort and junk food to alleviate the sadness he felt.  Dad truly believed that fruits and vegetables didn’t agree with his system and instead chose to eat twinkies, ding dongs, pies, and fast food instead.  As a result, he put on so much weight he became immobile and diabetic.  He complained about the physical pain constantly.  He refused to accept that his eating habits were causing him pain. 

His life consisted of getting up, migrating to a chair in his living room and turning on the TV for 16 hours a day. Then getting up from his chair and working his way to bed.  There would be the occasional bathroom visit or trek to the kitchen for more junk food.  In the last 2 or 3 years his migrations from his chair to bed at night would take 20-45 minutes because of his weight and the pain it caused his legs, hip and back.

He chose this life.  However, he blamed everything around him except his choices.  He refused to make the necessary changes that could have reversed the damage.  He clearly chose the path he took yet still had the audacity to complain and state it was the doctor’s fault or his body’s fault…never did be blame himself or his own personal choices.  The world around him was the problem in his view.

I think what makes this worse for me is that I had the same type of mindset for most of my life.  I too would make specific choices and blame others when it wouldn’t go the way I wanted.  I would never take a moment to stop and look inward to see that maybe I needed to focus on how I should make changes in my choices and lifestyle to become a better person physically, mentally, and spiritually.  I had become my dad.  He taught me exactly this method of thinking.

Therefore, looking in the mirror was and still is painful.

I see the poor choices I made.  The failures I experienced because of those choices.  The regrets that I carry.  How much my life was becoming like my dad’s life.  All these things come to mind when the image of my dad appears.  But, while it is still painful to see him, I am now using that pain to shatter that image in the mirror.  The pain is a reminder that I do not have to end up like my dad.  I can break the mold.  I have chosen not to be like him.  I have focused on a new mindset. One that takes ownership of my actions and looks to make my life and the lives of others better just a little bit every day.  This is the purpose of EVERY. DAMN. DAY.

Each day I focus on making progress in 3 specific areas of my life.  Physical.  Mental.  Spiritual.  Progress!  Instead of a mindset of “life has run me over” and accepting my fate, I have chosen to take control through finding ways each day to improve my life.  My personal happiness depends greatly on my personal growth.  If I am not growing, then I am dying…just like my father chose to do.  He chose to shorten his life instead of working to truly live; to enjoy life and seize the opportunities to experience life to the fullest.

My primary goal is to live the life my father never chose to live.  I want to experience a life where my progress will provide me happiness, accomplishment, and a winning attitude.  Life is not here to take me down.  I am here to take life head on and own it!  Life is my playground; my canvass to create what I want.  Nothing is handed to me.  Only through hard work, discipline and consistency can I make the progress I need to win at the game of life.  

And so can you.  EVERY. DAMN. DAY.