The Post Secret page has never been more poignant for me:

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

My relationship with my own father was very problematic, but at the last I was horrified by his suffering and alienation.  His senile dementia and hearing loss left him completely alone and he’d been a traveling salesman never-meet-a-stranger kind of guy who was extremely social.  He was hurting and curled into a fetal position after breaking his hip/leg in a fall.  He was clearly afraid and did not understand what was happening to him.  Death came as a blessing in my mind.  Yet, I could not mourn.  For years, he had not only lost his own humanity, but my mother had also become withdrawn and isolated by her stubborn resolve to take care of him at home until it simply became impossible.

I left my father’s house pretty young — not yet 18 — and my guilt about my father’s death is not close to my guilt about leaving my sisters behind.  My father was physical with them and increasingly so.  I felt the most guilty about my middle sister and even though she and I are estranged, I still understand many of her problems when I remember how he resolved the issues between them with his physical prowess — the back of his hand ended many “discussions”.

Like any child, I wanted my father to love me, approve of me and be proud of me.  It never happened. 

Dad didn’t hug us, he “wrestled” or “tussled” with us and every time one of the children ended up hurt and crying.  I have a portrait of “Daddy” on my studio wall:  it’s a watercolor of the brown belt that sent us to bed weeping almost every night.

By contrast, Dad had many, many friends who adored him, found him funny and warm.  When I say Dad never met a stranger, I mean he would kid and chat with every service station attendant and store clerk he encountered.  He could be loving:  I prayed and wished and hoped that someday he would treat me as well as he did the family dog.

He’s buried in Lawton next to my grandmother, Elsie, who was the one adult in my family who made me feel the most loved.  There’s so much emotion there I can hardly go to Comanche County with my mother, who still tends his grave.

I have many legacies from my father: starched shirts and shined shoes; a well-knotted necktie; great silver hair; the idea that I can’t do anything right and that I’m therefore worthless.

Now, I’m a father and grandfather myself.  My youthful contempt for the hypocrisy of the Ozzie and Harriet outside and abusive inside of my family life is now more mournful and understanding.

Now, the frustrations of not knowing how to raise a child and the temptation to take those frustrations out in anger on the child are more real to me.  My own youthful parenting is a blot on my soul and my subsequent reform is one of my most proud achievements.

I hope my children remember the hugs and not the hurts.  They cannot know how deeply they are loved.  They cannot know how deeply I regret my shortcomings as a father.

There are some situations as a parent I believe are so fraught with peril that it’s something you can’t get right:  you make a decision knowing that it’s wrong, but in hope that it’s less wrong than the alternatives.  In retrospect, you hope and pray the positive outweighs the negative.

My alcoholism while my children were under my care is a source of regret, to be sure.  As a recovering alcoholic, my hope is to live as a man they can be proud of, a man they forgive and a man who now demonstrates the unqualified love I always felt.

I’m sorry I was so self-centered and selfish, kids.  I’m sorry I followed the path I was shown and not the one I knew was right.  I hope you can love me for making a change, lowering my voice and staying my hand, giving hugs and telling you “I love you”. 

I couldn’t have done too badly, they both turned out to be perfectly lovely, wonderful adults.

I don’t take the credit, Jack and RebL.  I do deeply appreciate the love you show me throughout the year.

Happy Father’s Day