Daddy is a Super Hero

© University of Kansas Medical Center

Dad is a bona fide hero (insert West Texas drawl here).  I didn't realize it growing up but it's true.  He has endured a lot for his family and with little thanks.  I'm a lot like him; in some ways good and in some ways bad.  But who doesn't have traits they would like to change?  Now that I've experienced the world for a decade or so and have faced many of the same emotional trials myself, I have an immense appreciation for Dad. 

You see, one very strong trait that we share in common is that we are both fairly high-strung.  We're both "Type A's" and we're both burnt-out perfectionists.  Despite being deployed to a war zone, being separated from my wife multiple times, and other stuff that really doesn't amount to much in the grand scheme, the most difficult challenge I have faced is anxiety disorder.  It's 4:00 AM and I still haven't been able to find sleep.  My heart is racing.  Finally I succumb to taking drugs and sit here to blog while it takes effect.  I hate the drugs but blogging is therapeutic - like journalling.  I hate being dependent upon a little pill to calm me down at night and massive quantities of caffeine to get going in the morning.  That's what my Daddy endured for decades.  At least I have access to modern medicine. 

I suppose Dad did too, in the way that medicine has always been improving over the last few hundred years.  Dad had access to fewer tools than I do now to help regulate anxiety, depression and circadian rhythm.  But there are two things he didn't have that I do: 

1. A broader knowledge of "alternative" therapies.  We know so much more about what makes the brain tick now.  We know we can alter brain chemistry simply by training it through techniques like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.  I think the only solution in Dad's day was "psychotherapy," and who wants to be labeled a nutcase or bread basket?  
2. A broader acceptance of the illness that is anxiety.  It's incredibly common now.  I see it on the faces of the hurried down-townites, raised on video games and multi-tasking.  Bleh!  What a farce!  Information abounds on the internet about the condition and even psychotherapy isn't the anathema I think it once was.  

What a difference a few years makes!  Dad has been dealing with this his whole adult life and is just now finding some relief.  After experiencing it myself, I honestly don't know how he overcame such a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.   Maybe he is cut from a sturdier stock than I.  Maybe his hide wasn't tanned and softened nearly as much as mine.  Maybe he's a super hero.

Somewhere inside me there's a lot of him.  That gives me hope.  Hope!  How ironic to find hope out of his life of anxiety, not knowing what caused his bazaar symptoms, and thirty some-odd years of looking for the silver bullet.  But that's where the hope comes in.  He has struggled with fulfillment, achievement, providing for his family, and all with a brain-fog hanging over his head.  He has purservered in a way few people can appreciate.  It's like becoming a triathlete but your missing a leg. 

It's hard to appreciate what I'm trying to describe (inadequately, I might add).  Imagine you're a high-strung perfectionist with big dreams.  Those dreams never really die, they just metamorphosize into the next related dream.  OK, sounds normal for any ambitious soul, right?  Now overlay on top of that feelings of anxiousness, constant agitation, inability to sleep, incessant fatigue, insufferable brain-fog like walking through your day with blinders and, Oh, say, a tub of jello to look through all day.  Compound that with nagging self doubt, a need for constant reassurance despite pushing away those that love you, and the fear that this condition will keep you from providing for your wife and three kids.  Now layer on the physical effects like constant headaches and back pain that the chiropractor can never figure out, heart palpitations and a racing heart, the feeling that you are floating above your bed, and inexplicable tender points in your head, arms, and legs.   Imagine this is you and doctors don't have a clue what's going on and all main-stream tests come back normal.  Scared yet?  Now add the fact that he really didn't have a lot of hope for improvement.  I know he must have succumbed to blissful apathy at times, only to wake up the next day with a bigger task ahead of him.  I think he may have been too proud or maybe the thought spending the family's budget on therapy just didn't feel right.  I know he tried it a time or two.  We even had a family session in which I let my adolescent hormones get the best of me and it became a discussion about what's wrong with me.  Helping Dad was cast to the sideline.

I remember very vividly one night when I was about 12 years old and my brother would have been about 9.  After Dad came home he chastised us in a tirade about cleaning up our room.  He never laid a hand on us the whole time.  Mind you, I'm in no way berating my dad.  He strives for excellence in whatever he does, even today, although I think all he could really control at the time was how clean the house was.  We felt pretty bad about the state of disarray our room was in and after being banished to our quarters, we concocted a plan to make atonement.  We thought, "maybe we won't get in trouble for that." 

Maybe Mom scolded him.  Maybe once his blood pressure subsided he could think a little straighter.  One way or another, I will never forget what happened next.  We sheepishly snuck down the hall to the living room.  To our amazement, Dad was in his recliner - his head in his hands, sobbing.  I think he felt horrible about the tirade over a minor offense.  Maybe the day got to him.  Maybe a sum of days finally got to him.  Whatever the cause of his emotion, he was sorrowful.  We meekly approached him and as soon as we opened our mouths we startled him.  It was a look of despair, penitence, and deep anguish all in one expression.  Before we had time to get out our apologies he quickly knelt, embraced us in what seemed to us to be tree trunks of arms and sobbed.  He apologized to us more than we ever thought of apologizing to him.  That was the first time I remember seeing Dad cry.  

I often think on that incident these days.  It makes Dad human, vulnerable.  But at the same time he endured years of despair.  Years.  That's bravery in the face of uncertainty.  That's the hope I have for myself: endurance.  Striving to provide for a family that often didn't understand him.  That's such a lonely place to be, and  yet he pushed on.  I don't know if my parents ever talked about divorce over all those weary years but we never heard a word about taking the easy way out.  Neither did we ever suspect the inner turmoil from which he protected us.  He didn't give up.  I'm not either.

Through it all, he didn't give up, although I'm sure you would get a different story if you ask him.  He may see his search for contentment as a bane.  I see it now as the best choice he could have made - a change of pace I find so hard to institute myself.  Of course, there is a lot to be said about the strength and submission of my sweet Mother.  But that's a story for another time.

Interested in finding out more about anxiety disorders and depression?  This site is a great place to start.