A Letter To My Children

“All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.”

― Henry Ellis

This Christmas is for you. Or maybe this Christmas is for me, I’m not really sure. I do know that this Christmas is important, this much is certain. A time to make amends? Perhaps. Tell you I’m sorry through gifts? Guilty. Seeking out redemption in the aisles of department stores? Yes. Using merchandise to supplant the love I’ve forgotten how to give? Likely. My reasoning may be flawed, my parental vision warped but I’m looking at this Christmas to be a type of catalyst. Hopefully this holiday season is when the healing truly begins, when you start to trust me again. You see, this Christmas is about you. Or maybe us. It’s about unringing the bell. It’s about trying to go home again. It’s about a dad trying to be a dad again. It’s about you being able to depend on me again. It’s about seeing you smile again.

I’ve abandoned you many times in the past. Maybe not by choice but that’s just a copout. I abandoned you. When I was sitting at the racetrack, hemorrhaging away the rent money, the food money, the Christmas money, you were the ones most affected. I learned to deal with not eating well, or feeling the hammer of depression constantly or with that penetrating and all-encompassing shame. I was the adult, I had a few coping mechanisms. What about you, though? A child waiting for his dad to come home so we could watch a movie together or waiting to have dinner with me? No, when I got home from the track I went straight to my bedroom, my silence telling you that I screwed up yet again. You didn’t have the coping mechanisms I had, you were just a child so you bore the brunt of my actions. I sliced your heart and tortured your mind with my irresponsible and destructive ways. I was a thief, I stole your innocence, your hope. I stole your smile. How does a kid deal with that? How did you survive me? You are strong. Stronger than me. You’re a mass of tungsten. Adamantine.

What about all those times that I told you I had quit gambling. I was done. I was a changed man. I was transformed. You believed me, you bought into my bullshit. You just wanted a dad again, so you thought this time I really had walked away from gambling. You thought Christmas was going to be special again. I wasn’t a changed man, though. I was a liar. A manipulator. A deceiver. The tree was bereft of beautifully wrapped gifts. Your Christmas wish-list was singed by betrayal and greed. A fathers addiction. A childs dysphoria. A pattern developed, hope followed by disappointment. That’s how it went for years. Hope-disappointment. Hope-disappointment. Until eventually it became disappointment followed by more disappointment. And anger. Then estrangement. A severing of ties, a vanishing.

I can’t tell you that I’ll be the dad I used to be. A good father. A caring father. A teaching father. I can’t tell you that. That’s my goal, of course, but I’m not there yet. All those years of gambling, unrelenting depression and bouts of homelessness changed me. I lost faith in myself. I lost faith in society. I learned to find comfort in solitude. When I hurt people in the past and they walked away from me, I adapted. I got lost in my own head, I had to. When a man walks alone, he has to convince himself that he’s not as terrible as people think he is. That’s what I did. I lived in my own mind, I shutoff the world. I shutoff you. I killed memories. It was about survival. It was about hanging on. But the byproduct of that mentality is that I have trouble reaching out. It’s difficult to even pick up a phone and call you. It frightens me to hear your voice sometimes and I’m not sure why. Sometimes I find myself still wanting to hide from everyone, including you. It baffles me but its my reality. I’m hesitant to offer hope again. I’m reticent to form a bond that I shattered so many times before. I’m trying, though. God d****t, I’m trying. You deserve that much.

When I was Christmas shopping for you recently, I was stressed out. I wanted to find the perfect gift. I was looking for a toy or an article of clothing that would make me whole again. Make us whole again. Fill a void. Strangle my guilt. A gift that would please you and undo all the carnage as well. I remember laughing to myself, thinking that all you truly want for Christmas is a healthy dad. A dad that’s visible. A dad that loves. But I also wanted to make up for all those gifts I lost at the track. All those potential presents riding on a horses flesh. I needed to put something magical under that lonely tree. I just wanted to buy you something that would make you smile again. A form of restitution.

This Christmas is for us. My two year journey of being rearranged leading us to this point. My words will tell you that I’m a changed man yet again. That I’ve walked away from gambling, that I’ve learned to deal with the black tentacles of depression. This is all true, but you’ve heard this many times before, haven’t you? They’re just words, sound bites. I’m focused on deeds, now. Actions. Responsible behavior. Something tangible. I’m focused on being a dad again, I’m focused on you. This Christmas is important. This Christmas is about moving forward. This Christmas is about family. A new beginning.