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Writer's pictureNathan Coley

An Open Letter to Be Read by My Son, at a Future Time in Which it Will Be Fitting, Heaven Help Him

Son,


I apologized A LOT to you the year I went into the mental hospital. You were nine years old when I crossed through several layers of secure doors and left everything I knew behind for a week. I do not know how old you will be when you finally read this, if you ever decide to read it. After all, you lived a good bit of it and know it already. While the readers of my blog had to necessary learn about me from a distance, you had a front row seat.


LUCK YOU.


I suspect that you will probably object to the narrative in places here and there. For that I am sorry. I am only human. Sometimes the only way to grease the wheels of a shattered spirit is to be a little elastic with the truth and a little too fancy with the presentation.


I am, as you have always known, really full of shit.


And speaking of that, I certainly had plenty of moments where you probably felt that way. As the person in the household capable of showing what a borderline rage can look like, I am most aware of this: You had to witness many of these borderline rages, and most regrettably, you were not always just an innocent bystander. If I could go prison for demonstrating an elevated volume, a distressed tone of voice, and some verbal jabs for good measure, I would be writing this from a cell, perhaps with some coded message asking you to leave me a file baked inside of a cake.


I can’t fully imagine how I must have looked to you; your father knows that borderline rage feels like while he experiences sit, but with very little awareness of how it looks to others.


You know how must people find it impossible to tolerate what they sound like on camera or voice recordings? For a long time, I found it intolerable to really come to grips with the extent of my rage and and obvious lack of emotional regulation skills. If it’s worth anything, I started truly working on those skills the year that everything went to Hell and further. It only took me 40 years. Slow and steady wins the…….race?


By the time that you read this, I certainly hope that there is some payoff. Time always provides the answers that it refuses to give us in the first place. I have decided that I WILL have improved when you comb through these readings and (hopefully) come to a more nuanced understanding of the kind of NUT that I am.


And just what did I put you on trial for when I was on the most spectacular of downward spirals? Very little of substantial importance, I think. Maybe you didn’t put your toys away here, or maybe you left too much water on the bathroom floor over there. I never yelled at you for anything really important. But, I raised my voice all the same, and I allowed the layers of my borderline anger to emerge as a response to what was often just a little boy being a little boy.


What ought to make someone change color, experience a fast heart rate, and churn angry words together in a revolting concoction of awful? What should consolidate my rage, every last drop, in a way that makes those around me scared to talk? What should send people near me to the nearest exit or hiding space?


Sometimes I don’t know when anger ought to be deployed (and for good reason, as I have used it so very poorly for so often), but I know this: If you were ever scared of your father during one of his borderline rages, you never did a single thing to deserve that kind of anger. Yes, picked up your toys sooner would have been nicer. Yes, not leaving water in the bathroom after a shower would be super. Yes, I would love to see you doing those small things, those little things, those insignificant chores, without being asked over and over.


But you were a good boy, and none of that was ever a reason for my anger to boil over and affect you. All that happened in this area is 100 percent on me and my inability to use my emotions in a way that made sense.


And in the end, I know that I was never really angry with you for this quirky behavior or that mild and ultimately harmless act of disobedience. Whenever I yelled at you, know that I was only looking right at you, and in you, and through you, and seeing a version of myself that I was never quite happy with. Whenever I corrected you, I really found myself playing the perfection game with a younger version of myself. Part of me probably thought that I could stamp the imperfections out of you in one area or another, and for that I was a fool.


Perfection isn’t real; it’s an illusion that shatters relationships and drives people to despair. It convinces competent people that they are worthless. Those deluded by the seduction of perfection also lose out on real opportunities to improve. You shouldn’t be perfect, but you should always behave as if you have some untapped potential.


Whatever you do in life, don’t be perfect, don’t be blameless, and don’t be beyond reproach. If you make a mess, don’t obsess over some spotless cleanup. Instead, consider how much of the mess you cleaned up well. If you are playing a game and you miss a pass or a goal, consider the plays that you made. If you get an answer wrong, remember that you got answers right. You should not ignore your shortcomings, but they do not deserve a megaphone either.


I blew up at you because I was still a little a kid inside, sad and scared and trying to be perfect. For this I am sorry. I love you, all your flaws included.


Perfection is fucking stupid, and you don’t need it.



Yours Mentally,



Dad







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