The psychology of my Father
May. 29th, 2004 03:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thehefnerThe following is about the conversation my father and I had today as a result of a question I asked him. If exploring the mindset of a very, very sick, pathetic individual is interesting to you, by all means, read on. Otherwise, it's cuttag time for everyone else's sake.
It wasn't the first time I'd bought him tonic water. In fact, nearly every time I buy him groceries I have to get him a couple bottles. Used to be one, then it became two, now it's as many as they have. I never liked doing it for the obvious reason that I'm basically keeping my father in supply of 1/2 of the concoction that's been slowly, horribly destroying him since before I was even born. I still am waiting for him to get the nerve to ask me to buy him the gin, but the liquor store delivers.
But Safeway has a way of running out of Canada Dry tonic water, or just having only a couple of bottles left. Or of just me buying two bottles when it's completely stocked and telling him, "whoops, this is all they had left, I'm afraid." So today, in addition to going to Safeway for food (his dinner for the next couple of nights), my father asked me to go to Talberts, a liquor store, and buy a *case* of tonic water. In fact, if making the trip to both places is too much trouble, I could just go to Talberts today and get the food tomorrow.
"So, wait, Dad," I said, "you're prioritizing tonic water over food?" And he said yes.
So I do it. As as I'm driving all around Bethesda, running errands, I'm muttering to myself over and over again, "Don't talk to him about it, don't talk to him about it..."
See, once again I find myself in a situation with someone with whom words can do no good, and indeed, could only make things worse. Once again, the best (and only) thing I can do is suck it up, get over it, and move on. But just like with the last time, my own nature gets the better of me, as you knew it would.
So I lug in this case into the kitchen, where my father sits in his same ratty old chair, his dripping, putrid feet on the same ratty old foot rest, and when he sees the tonic, I swear to God his face lights up like a kid getting a bike for Christmas. "Yay!" he cries. "Thank you so much, Johnny! Oh, that is wonderful!"
And I ask the one question I've been thinking about over and over again. Just one question. No rant, no intervention, just a simple question.
"Dad, do you think, even for a moment, that I'm comfortable going out of my way to get tonic water for you?"
And as if he'd been expecting this question, he leans back in his chair, clasps his lumpy-gout-ridden hands, and speaks. And as he speaks I know where he's going with it from the first words, and I know what his point is going to be, and I know he is going to go around the most long-winded way he can to get there. And I'm going to have to stay to listen to it.
"Let me tell you about my life, John. My life... consists of this chair..."
And I'm thinking to myself, Don't say it, don't say it, when he's done just say "all right" and let it go, but don't say it...
"After 36 years of teaching college... after 40 years of playing concerts... after opening my own music school... after 67 girlfriends (your mother made me count before she would marry me, then she asked me to stop)... after..."
Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it...
"... this chair is my life now. Every day, this is all I have left. When I see you, that's the highlight of my life, but I when you're not here, this," he refers to the bottles of tonic and gin by his side, "... is all I have."
Don't say it, fucking don't say it...
"I drink, but I never get drunk..." ex-fucking-scuse me? "... I never pass out..." Yeah, you just drink to the point of passing out, then you come upstairs for a "nap." Don't say it "... I've never tripped or fallen..." Excuse me? I seem to recall finding you at the bottom of the stairs, face down in a pool of blood. Don't say it "This is all I have left. This chair is my life now. You understand that, John?"
Don't say it, just nod and walk away, but don't-
"Dad... that drink is the *reason* you're in that chair."
Aaaaaaaaaaaand you said it.
"No, it isn't. Gout is hereditary. It has nothing to do with it."
"Dad, I've researched gout! Alchohol is one of the worst things for gout!" That, and red meat, and he had me buy him a serloin steak the other day.
"This started when I was born, John."
"But the drinking made it worse!!! Alcohol kills the immunity system! It's the reason you're like this!"
"I'm not going to argue with you, John," he said, fussily. "There's no point."
And he was right. There wasn't. There isn't.
I mean... GOD. I mean, I knew it was as good as talking to a bottle before, but God, he's completely fooled himself. He's living entirely in a world of self-delusion and self-pity where it's everyone's fault but his own. A world where everyone's left him, he great life has completely crumbled away, the disease of his family is eating away at him, and now all he has left to comfort him is his drinks, not to get drunk, no, just to get through the days.
This is absolutely maddening to the point of being utterly surreal. What in God's name is happening? I mean, is it any wonder I have such a low tolerance for people whom I percieve as living in self-delusion, going around pretending everything is all right and moving on when things really obviously are not fucking all right? Is it any wonder that I am such a confrontationalist (albeit a polite one), wanting to talk things out to the point of ad nauseum when it might be better to just let things go? Is it any wonder why I have White Knight syndrome?
The man is 71 now. How much longer is he going to live like this? What sacrifices am I going to have to make in the meantime? Medical bills? Nursing home? Or just being the gin delivery boy? Every day it gets worse, but somehow I don't think he will die for a long time. It's like a living Zeno's paradox, getting sicker and sicker and sicker without ever dying.
It wasn't the first time I'd bought him tonic water. In fact, nearly every time I buy him groceries I have to get him a couple bottles. Used to be one, then it became two, now it's as many as they have. I never liked doing it for the obvious reason that I'm basically keeping my father in supply of 1/2 of the concoction that's been slowly, horribly destroying him since before I was even born. I still am waiting for him to get the nerve to ask me to buy him the gin, but the liquor store delivers.
But Safeway has a way of running out of Canada Dry tonic water, or just having only a couple of bottles left. Or of just me buying two bottles when it's completely stocked and telling him, "whoops, this is all they had left, I'm afraid." So today, in addition to going to Safeway for food (his dinner for the next couple of nights), my father asked me to go to Talberts, a liquor store, and buy a *case* of tonic water. In fact, if making the trip to both places is too much trouble, I could just go to Talberts today and get the food tomorrow.
"So, wait, Dad," I said, "you're prioritizing tonic water over food?" And he said yes.
So I do it. As as I'm driving all around Bethesda, running errands, I'm muttering to myself over and over again, "Don't talk to him about it, don't talk to him about it..."
See, once again I find myself in a situation with someone with whom words can do no good, and indeed, could only make things worse. Once again, the best (and only) thing I can do is suck it up, get over it, and move on. But just like with the last time, my own nature gets the better of me, as you knew it would.
So I lug in this case into the kitchen, where my father sits in his same ratty old chair, his dripping, putrid feet on the same ratty old foot rest, and when he sees the tonic, I swear to God his face lights up like a kid getting a bike for Christmas. "Yay!" he cries. "Thank you so much, Johnny! Oh, that is wonderful!"
And I ask the one question I've been thinking about over and over again. Just one question. No rant, no intervention, just a simple question.
"Dad, do you think, even for a moment, that I'm comfortable going out of my way to get tonic water for you?"
And as if he'd been expecting this question, he leans back in his chair, clasps his lumpy-gout-ridden hands, and speaks. And as he speaks I know where he's going with it from the first words, and I know what his point is going to be, and I know he is going to go around the most long-winded way he can to get there. And I'm going to have to stay to listen to it.
"Let me tell you about my life, John. My life... consists of this chair..."
And I'm thinking to myself, Don't say it, don't say it, when he's done just say "all right" and let it go, but don't say it...
"After 36 years of teaching college... after 40 years of playing concerts... after opening my own music school... after 67 girlfriends (your mother made me count before she would marry me, then she asked me to stop)... after..."
Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it...
"... this chair is my life now. Every day, this is all I have left. When I see you, that's the highlight of my life, but I when you're not here, this," he refers to the bottles of tonic and gin by his side, "... is all I have."
Don't say it, fucking don't say it...
"I drink, but I never get drunk..." ex-fucking-scuse me? "... I never pass out..." Yeah, you just drink to the point of passing out, then you come upstairs for a "nap." Don't say it "... I've never tripped or fallen..." Excuse me? I seem to recall finding you at the bottom of the stairs, face down in a pool of blood. Don't say it "This is all I have left. This chair is my life now. You understand that, John?"
Don't say it, just nod and walk away, but don't-
"Dad... that drink is the *reason* you're in that chair."
Aaaaaaaaaaaand you said it.
"No, it isn't. Gout is hereditary. It has nothing to do with it."
"Dad, I've researched gout! Alchohol is one of the worst things for gout!" That, and red meat, and he had me buy him a serloin steak the other day.
"This started when I was born, John."
"But the drinking made it worse!!! Alcohol kills the immunity system! It's the reason you're like this!"
"I'm not going to argue with you, John," he said, fussily. "There's no point."
And he was right. There wasn't. There isn't.
I mean... GOD. I mean, I knew it was as good as talking to a bottle before, but God, he's completely fooled himself. He's living entirely in a world of self-delusion and self-pity where it's everyone's fault but his own. A world where everyone's left him, he great life has completely crumbled away, the disease of his family is eating away at him, and now all he has left to comfort him is his drinks, not to get drunk, no, just to get through the days.
This is absolutely maddening to the point of being utterly surreal. What in God's name is happening? I mean, is it any wonder I have such a low tolerance for people whom I percieve as living in self-delusion, going around pretending everything is all right and moving on when things really obviously are not fucking all right? Is it any wonder that I am such a confrontationalist (albeit a polite one), wanting to talk things out to the point of ad nauseum when it might be better to just let things go? Is it any wonder why I have White Knight syndrome?
The man is 71 now. How much longer is he going to live like this? What sacrifices am I going to have to make in the meantime? Medical bills? Nursing home? Or just being the gin delivery boy? Every day it gets worse, but somehow I don't think he will die for a long time. It's like a living Zeno's paradox, getting sicker and sicker and sicker without ever dying.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
The Horror is, you can't save him.
Date: 2004-05-29 02:25 pm (UTC)Doctor, Doctor, it hurts when I do this!
Then stop doing it.
But, y'see, they won't. You won't.
You would have said it sooner or later. You would have realized that all you can do is watch him slowly kill himself. You know this, and now it's happened.
And you know what'll happen next? You'll lie to yourself for a moment, thinking you can turn a blind eye and shut off the emotions making you desperately want to save him, somehow. You'll think you can allow him to keep killing himself, slowly or quickly it doesn't matter, and let it happen so that at least someday it will be over and you can stop having to face the moments the veil drops away and you try to make him see things for what they are.
But you won't, not for long. You'll let it get to you, and you'll say it again, and over the course of days/weeks/months/years god-help-you you'll be proven right as he becomes less and less of the dad you want and more and more of the father you regret; a talking corpse unwilling to be buried yet mumbling something around the barrel of the gun in it's mouth about keeping the shotgun loaded.
And the saddest thing? You want to have an actual relationship with your father, but delivering his poison is the only relationship you can have wih him.
Keep writing it down, my friend, and survive it. It's the only thing you can do to remain sane.