Baggage

Everyone carries some baggage from their childhood. The weight can certainly vary, but we are who we are because of the influences made on our life’s and by our decisions along the way. My personal baggage is quite heavy, and I hope that by recounting these events I can begin to shed some of the tonnage.

At the age of 4 my mother and father parted ways and my older brother (by 4 years) and I went to live with our dad. Much later in life I was told they broke up because they’d lost love for each other, and mom said that dad was better equipped (financially?) to raise us two boys. I don’t remember ever hearing them fight, and they remained friendly right up until my dad’s passing in 2010. For the first many years my brother and I would spend one weekend per month with mom, but as we all grew up the spacing between visits got further and further apart.

Dad’s first landing spot was with a woman who had two young girls. I have only three memories of this period…

1) Watching Rocket Robin Hood and other Saturday morning cartoons

2) Being chased through a dirt field by older boys/men on quads, and the feeling of running for my life.

3) Leaving in a hurry one morning with my dad and brother.

I asked my dad about this period at one point when I was much older. Apparently, the woman was the ex-wife of a mafia member and our dad had received death threats…which is what led us to flee that morning. The men on quads…yup, there to do harm to my brother and me. Rumor has it that she and her new boyfriend were murdered soon after we fled, but that’s just a rumor.

Back then it occurred to me though that we didn’t flee when the first threat came in, nor did we flee when my brother and I got chased. We’ll call this my first memory of our dad putting us boys as his 2nd and 3rd priorities.

Soon after, dad hooked up with a new woman who had three young boys. I’m sure it was a longer courtship than I remember, but it seems like we were all living together quite soon. Funny thing is, throughout the 19 year relationship that followed I never saw them get long or laugh together, so I must assume the early days were spurred on by physical fulfillment and our dad’s need for a babysitter while he travelled for work.

They argued, endlessly, and about everything.

In one corner of the ring, we found a self-righteous English man. In the other corner we found woman who had just fled a physically abusive marriage and carried deep emotional trauma from it. Neither were the type to give an inch, nor seek compromise over being the victor.

Every good relationship includes confrontations, it’s healthy and productive if done with respect and fairness. But the fights these two had were something else! Not only did they yell and scream about everything, but they used us kids as ammunition/targets and then fought it out right in front of us. So many nights us boys went to sleep with the two parents arguing right beside our bed… sweet dreams!

I remember once, in my later teens, barging into by youngest brother’s room where a battle was happening. Both parents gave me the “who do you think you are” look, but I charged on with my intention and yelled, “get the f*ck out of B’s room. You’ve f*cked up the rest of us and I’m not going to let it happen to B.” They left but I got grounded for that action, further rooting the feeling of a no-win childhood.

Her eldest son was the same age as me, and we were constantly compared against each other during these battles. My dad would get mad if he did something wrong, and she’d respond by finding some fault with me and then I’d get in trouble despite having no tie to the original issue. She’d come hard at me about trivial things when dad wasn’t home and if I said anything upon dad’s return, it would spark a battle. Not in defense of me, but in an attack of her son to balance the scales. We were both routinely blindsided by drama we didn’t cause. I was a good student but couldn’t celebrate that because if her son didn’t do well, she’d dream up some reason to ground me. I was a good athlete but couldn’t celebrate that either because he wasn’t into sports.

So that was life. If I took care of myself, I lived in fear of doing anything wrong to avoid unfair consequences. If I cared about my family, I lived in fear of doing anything wrong to help avoid yet another battle between the parents. It was quite simply a no win situation, but tv drama series in the 80’s and 90’s showed me that this was normal abuse for a middle child in a blended family.

However, abnormal abuse came to my brother and I in the form late-night separations. You see our dad would routinely get into big arguments with step-mom that resulted in him yelling about divorce and yanking us boys out of bed, into the van, and off to a cold motel room somewhere. When I say routinely, I mean at least a dozen times over the 19 years they were together. While driving to the motel dad would regale us with stories about what she had done wrong, how he was right, and how we were off to start a new and better life. Sometimes we’d be gone only one night, usually for a couple weeks, and at least twice it was for a few months. But after filling our young minds with all the bad she’d done, and how evil she is, we’d get told that we’re going home as if nothing had ever happened. Perhaps worse, we were often told that dad had to go back for “B” who was our youngest half-brother; firmly solidifying that he was more important than us.

-  One time we were in said motel room and dad told me to tell step-mom over the phone how much I hated her…what a horrible thing to ask of your son! I remember screaming at her, and she responded simply with a calm, “why do you think you hate me?”. Don’t get me wrong, she was a horrible person, but that moment of calmness has stuck with me all these years.

-  Another time we moved into an apartment in the nearest city, and I started at a new school. I had no friends, no stable home, and certainly nobody looking out for me. I believe that time we were gone for two months which gave me just enough time to start making friends at school, then never say goodbye to.

-  Most notably though was the time my brother and I got shipped off to live with relatives in Alberta. Dad’s plan was to have us stay with relatives while he focused on getting us a house and secure our future. The three of us hopped about a west-bound flight and what an adventure it felt like. Not only were we now away from the toxic house, but dad was super committed to building this new awesome life for us. My brother and I settled in with our aunt and uncle, who we’d met maybe twice before, but things felt great. Dad flew back to Ontario a few days later and that’s about when the wheels fell. See, dad did fly back, but within a couple days he was back at the family home! What…the…f*ck?! But we’d been down this road before so it seemed like our Alberta stay would be quite short. Nope! We were left in Alberta while dad focused his attention on her kids trying to make them feel like more of the family. Again, what…the…f*ck?!  Dad would call on a regular basis to tell us about all the wonderful things they were doing and how great things were now. You mean “now that my brother and I aren’t there?” I was roughly 12 years old at that time and already suffering from some serious mental trauma; super hard to hear from my hero that life is better without me. We came home about 6 months later and had no option but to integrate back into the family and never talk about our time out west.

During the final years of their marriage my dad’s attitude towards the relationship changed, and he started to see it as a game. What could he get away with and sneak past her? Could he have affairs without her finding out? He still demanded that she play the devoted woman’s role, but he felt justified in doing whatever he wanted because he was a man with needs. It was during these years that I also learned that he’d been unfaithful to my mom all those years ago…I wonder if that’s what actually broke them up?

The sweet karma came one day when she left him suddenly, having spent weeks and months planning her departure. One day she simply said it’s over, packed a bag, said goodbye to the dog, and drove off. To a man who insisted on being in charge of everything this was crushing, and seriously bruised his ego. He pigeon-holed their entire relationship as being a sham and wanted to rid his life of any reminder. I will forever remember packing all of the family mementos, photos, and anything he thought was hers into a Uhaul truck bound for the dump. That was a very hard day and I wish I’d had the foresight back then to pull out some important things that no doubt my brothers would want. But the toxic marriage was finally over, and we could all move on.

A few years later dad told me that he always enjoyed the sport of fighting with her. Nice.

After a severe panic attack a few years back I started to unpack my childhood baggage. See, before that I lived by my dad’s words and used my broad shoulders to accept the burden of others, while “sucking it up” as a man and not taking care of myself. Combine that with the instilled fear of speaking up and I had no choice (in my mind) but to adopt a false happy-go-lucky persona yet visit dark places whenever alone. The panic attack came on because my shoulders finally couldn’t bear any more weight and I just fell apart. I was a ferry ride away from home and locked myself in the truck over fears I might take a walk off the back into the moonlit ocean, quite possibly the scariest moment of my life. The next day I sat in bed rocking back and forth, unable to digest the onslaught of feelings and emotions. Was it possible that the dad I stood beside, and stood up for, for all those years actually did me wrong? How do you turn your back on your hero? Could it be true that burying your problems won’t make them go away?

This was five years ago now and I’m still unpacking, and subsequently still feeling the effects every time I open a new box of emotional goodies.  Writing this story is just one part of the self-guided therapy I’ve embarked on to work through my faulty wiring. I know I can’t change the past, but that doesn’t mean I have to accept it either. What I will do though is move on and trim the fat that keeps these painful memories alive. Identifying the harmful actions and disappointing inactions done by people, then keeping them in my life, is what keeps these wounds open unless they take responsibility for their role.

The extent of the damage all this caused has only become evident in my later years.

-  I trust everyone at first but fault me once and you’re out for good. Even people who might think they’re close to me are actually kept at an arm’s length just to protect myself.

-  I’m always looking for an escape route, even from the most perfect situations.

-  I don’t feel rooted, even in my own home.

-  I’m afraid to take chances because I’m afraid of failing, or succeeding, and getting in trouble.

-  I’m not very outgoing because I’ve learned it’s better to stay off the radar.

-  And the serious bouts of depression, anxiety, suicidal tendencies, and misplaced rage all add to the complex tapestry that is me.

These issues helped shape who I am today in both good and bad ways. I keep most people at arm’s length, but if I hold you near you know that I’ve got your back. In looking for escape routes I’ve developed the imagination to dream big. I’m afraid to take chances and get in trouble, but that’s made me an incredibly hard worker who only accepts perfect results. And I might not be very outgoing at parties, but if you’re feeling overwhelmed or like having a good chat, I’m the one you want to find at the party. I simply refuse to allow the wrong-doings of others define who I am in only negative ways.

Thank you for reading this story. Like I said at the beginning, my hope that by writing this out I can start to shed some tonnage from my shoulders…and it has. Even in writing it out I’ve remembered new things and found a healthy path by them. If I can offer up one takeaway for you, it’s simply to be kind each other and yourself. Love.