In Spite of it All

December 20, 2003

This isn’t going to be a light or happy read.  I’m taking the cigarette out of my mouth, and taking off the mirrorshades.  Your smartass Uncle Pete is going to take a breather for a time, and his alter ego will step in for him.

Somewhere this Christmas there’s going to be a man who gets up on Christmas morning to a quiet and empty house.

He’ll go to the kitchen to make coffee, passing a tree that has presents stacked under it.  He might pause, and take a wistful glance at an empty bedroom.  I don’t know if it’s a bedroom that used to be full, or one he keeps.  A lot of men know about buying and renting two and three room houses that only they dwell in.

He might get the paper off the front porch, or go get one.  Maybe a doughnut at the Stop and Rob.  Hostess – Breakfast of Champions, or at least of the non-custodial father.  He’ll come home, munch his doughnuts and drink his coffee.  It’s early yet, maybe he’ll watch the news, or take a morning jog.

At the oft’ spoken of “reasonable hour” he’ll dial a number that maybe was once his.  In a quiet voice, he’ll ask to speak to the kids.  She’ll say “What?” over their shouts, and he’ll hear the voice of a man not even related to his children sitting about in a bathrobe, watching their eyes light up at presents under the tree, and taking pictures as he tells them to smile, or hold it up, or to leave your brother’s presents alone.  Maybe he’ll get to talk to his kids.  They’ll say “Merry Christmas Daddy!” then talk about what “Uncle Mommy’s New Boyfriend” bought them.  Mom’ll get back on the phone, be bitchy and cranky, and promise the kids “…later on.  Later.  I don’t know when.  When we’re done, that’s when.  That’s your problem, you always…”

Sighing, he’ll eventually get off the phone, but for the next while he’ll itch.  His eyes will dart back and forth between the tree, the clock, and the phone.  Maybe he’ll make lunch, or another pot of coffee.  He’ll eat or drink it absently, chain-smoking cigarettes.

He’ll replay conversations in his mind.  Have the kids there for dinner, she said.  We’ll maybe she’ll go to her Mother’s first.  After a few hours, he’ll call again.  No answer.  Maybe they’ve left already.

For the first time, a little excitement will get in his step.  He’ll make a snack for the kids, because they’ll be there any second.  His mind will fill with images of them chattering away, in a pile of paper and ribbons, eating candy – and he’ll indulge them.  It’s not like it used to be.  He doesn’t get to be Dad everyday.  That’s someone else’s job.

Time will pass.  First the soup for the kids will go to simmer, then to off, then in the fridge.  He’ll call again.  Funny.  Four rings.  He left a message, and the machine always just rings twice unless the message has been heard.  They must have came and left.  That’s it.  They’re on their way.

He takes a seat and halfheartedly watches TV, positioning himself so he sees the walk.  Every time he hears a car pull up, or a car door slam, he’ll tense, and look.  The shadows will lengthen.  Finally, he can stand it no longer.  He calls again.  One ring.  Two rings. Three r..Hello?  Oh, it’s you… More excuses.  Long day, bad roads, little Suzy got sick at Mamaw’s eating cranberry stuffing.  The kids are having supper now, afterwards.  It’s been a long day, can’t I just have Christmas day without you calling me and riding my ass?  After Supper.  After my feet get untired.  Dammit! ….click…

With barely contained rage, he’ll set the phone down.  Not even Christmas dinner with his kids.  He’ll force himself to eat something, the soup he made them for their lunch.  Quite probably cold. 

He’ll doze a bit while watching the news, or some special with a happy family, and a mom and dad.  For a moment he’ll escape until his eyes snap open and he realizes it’s dark and he’s awake, and it’s so late.  He’ll call again.  She’ll answer, shrill and waspish.  No.  I fell asleep.  Well, the kids are asleep.  No, I’m not going to wake them, Jesus Christ, Jim, they’re asleep!   You can do it tomorrow!  Thanks for ruining my fucking Christmas with all your whining, goddamnitcan’tyoujustgetoutofmyLIFE!

This time he’ll smash the phone down, maybe even break another one.  He ought to buy them in lots, now.  He’ll flash to visions of that other guy tucking his kids in on Christmas night.  Why not?  He got them up.  He’ll fantasize about beating the tar out of him, about taking her to court, this is too much for even them to ignore.  He’ll put on his shoes, take them off, put them on again, and maybe even pick up his keys, put on his coat, or make it to the car.

Sighing, he’ll come back in.  Why would going to court be any different?  Like the last times, they’ll look all stern, shake their fingers in her face, and lecture her, and she’ll be all contrite and promise never to do it again. She’ll cry, and the judge will beam like he’s Solomon.  Next year, Mister X.  Yes, you’ve been corholed again, and we know it’s wrong, but we’re not going to do anything about it or change it, because we’re wrthless and corrupted political whores, bought and paid for by the Feminazi lobby.  And as they leave, she’ll smirk that damnable smirk again.

He’ll watch minute by minute until midnight passes, and with it Christmas, gone forever with no hope of getting it back.  With a heavy step, he’ll turn out the lights, unplug the Tree, and to a bath, or to bed.

And that night, there’s be a blood filled tub, or the clatter of an empty pill bottle on the floor, or a single shot ringing out, and they’ll find him in a day or two with his kid’s pictures positioned so they were the last things he could see.  Merry Christmas.

How do I know this?  There, my friends, but for the grace of God went I, at least twice, in some variation of that sorry script.  The Holidays are an empty time for many of us, with each moment a painful reminder of all we DON’T have.  We swallow our pain, and retreat, not trusting ourselves to let it loose for a second lest it erupt in fury.  In the end, for many that pain becomes all there is, and it consumes and eats the soul.

I know a lot of people who will snort, and condemn such men who take the final walk this year.  I will not, and do so in my hearing at your own peril.  I’ve heard all the sanctimonious pratings and platitudes about how there’s “next” year, and people who have their families intact lecturing about how I can still be a meaningful father when I see my kid two weekends a month, and some other man is being daddy.  You walk a mile in those moccasins first before you even dare raise your eyes, let alone voice an opinion.

Tangent Alert - Yessir, “Stepfather” is a thankless job.  And you knew it when you took it, so resenting your lack of thanks is contemptible.  You knew you weren’t the father of those kids, and that they had a father.  And if you have failed to keep from crossing that line, sirrah, may your torments be legendary in Hell.  And I have been a stepfather.  And I did faithfully maintain the sanctity of the father-child bond.  Go thou and do likewise, and remember that sweetie-pie is very likely only giving you a carefully edited half of a self-serving story.

Every Christmas that passes is gone, and gone forever.  Those who will live through this, I can only say to you that you have a right to your wrath.  Tomorrow, or the day after, or next week IS middling, and it ISN’T the same, or good enough.  At best, you make the best of a totally inexcusable, second best.  And I feel you pain, because I have been there, pretending things are all right when all I wanted to do was bawl my eyes out, and take God Himself by the throat and choke the life out of him.

I know how seductive the siren call of the last sleep is.  It promises peace, and an end of pain.  It’s a lover’s lullaby, caressing you, vowing release, if only you’ll just…

No.  Don’t.  It’s a lie.

Male depression is a dirty little secret, it’s like the crazy aunt we keep locked in the attic.  I’ve fought it for going on two decades now.  The horror stories I could tell you about bad medication, misdiagnosis, and not even well-meaning therapists telling me to suck it up are legion.  Society despises men who are depressed.  I won’t even confess it to an employer to this day, nor use my prescription card when I need my Remeron ™.  Steve Imparl runs a site called MaleDepression at http://www.maledepression.com/ .  I strongly suggest – no, I beg you – if you are going through this, start with him.  He is far more eloquent on the subject than I ever could be, and has far better means of helping you through this.  I’ve staggered under the mind-numbing bleakness countless times.  God, what a mess.  There is help for you, please believe me.  My variety is the soul-wrenching fixation on death, even while the rational half of me is screaming in every fiber of my being how great things are right now.  And when life is a crock, it rots the spirit.  And it’s a damned, damned, lie. 

Don’t die on us, because your death won’t mean a thing.  Mike LaSalle at Men’s News Daily is virtually the only major news outlet that will even headline a story about a father who breaks under the anguish.  You will not make a point.  It will be twisted to show how weak you were.  Your ex will have her new “thang” on the adoption papers before your body is even cold in the grave.

Don’t do it because that is what they want.  They want to break you, to beat you down, and to erase you.  If for no other reason than pure fucking spite, don’t let them win.  Don’t let your death be your last Christmas present to your children.

If you know a man like this, it’s time to step up.  Don’t let him be alone.  Give a shoulder to lean on, and a friendly welcome.  Good men who care that much about their children are irreplaceable.  We can’t afford to lose them.

There will be no pithy comment to close this.  I’m almost weeping here, because I have seen it happen before, and I’ve lost a good friend because of it.  And I’ll admit it – there’s not a God Damn thing I can do to help you.  I can’t stop it, there’s no magic words of wisdom, or trite little advice of “Give of your time to help others!” to make the agony of your kid’s absence any the less in one tear.  But I do give a damn.

Please.  If you feel yourself turning down this path in the slightest, don’t let the bastards win.  And do your best to have a Merry Christmas in spite of it all.