Stuck

I think I see something. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but through the haze and from a distance, I think I see answers. They have an inexact form and I'm not sure what they are, but in writing about my father and grandfather just 24 hours ago, something clicked.

These two very important men in my life each experienced a redemption of sorts. My Grandpa grew up with a difficult father, was a distant and harsh father to his children, and became a beloved man to his grandchildren. My father grew up with that harsh man, mimicked that pattern with his own children, and has become a beloved soft place to land for his grandchildren. I have no children. I won't have, in all likelihood, any children. And without grandchildren, my chance to redeem myself two generations hence is not an option. If I'm to become a loveable presence to anyone in this lifetime, I have to do it without benefit of the passage of time and without screwing up an intermediate generation. Just in the saying of it, I perceive a tough row to hoe, as we say in Mayberry.

Days from now, one of my cousins will become the first of my generation to become a grandparent. That won't be my reality. I see, I think, that I've continued to look up the generational ladder for that redemptive sigh and that validation that my dad and my Pappy found in their grandchildren. Neither man seems to have ever truly reconciled the past with his own children. And they're not interested in reconciling with their own kids...why would they? They have the grandbabies for that. Instead, they got a fresh chance to start over and "do it right" when their children's children came along. It's probably not unique to my family. I'm sure most people see the difference in how their parents behave toward grandchildren in contrast to how those same people parented. If dwelled upon, that has to be frustrating to the point of distraction. But where do you go if you don't have children to connect back to your parents?

I'm beginning to see how the Big Man Silhouette mimics the larger-than-life persona of my Grandpa. And how the Bad Boy Image mimics the tough exterior of my childhood's father. Put them all together, shake well before using, and out comes a screwed up attempt to reconcile with the father who didn't like me and the grandpa I disappointed.

I confessed to The Good Doctor (I hate that word. It sounds like I had something bad to reveal.) that I looked at the Big Man Silhouette and saw strength and power and protection. Upon being questioned, I said that the Bad Boy spoke to me as a rule-breaking, authority-defying, devil-may-care version of strength - a faux strength, a dysfunctional strength, a strength that disintegrates under the slightest scrutiny - but strength all the same. When I tried to squeeze attention, affection, time or - gasp! - love out of myself for these men I chose, it failed. When I tried to get the same from them, it failed. And 41 1/2 years later, there is a string of failures to prove the point beyond all debate.

So what? That's where I'm stuck. And, I'm sure...that's where the next 50 minutes with the Good Doctor will take us. Now I have a question. Up until now, he's had all the questions and I've had a pat collection of well-rehearsed monologues. All the comments and questions I found half-insulting previously are starting to form into an arrow that points directly toward an answer that I can't quite grasp just yet. But I think I've identified the question.

"Retarded when it comes to being in love" - stuck with trying to apologize to the Big Man and get Dad to love me through men who knew neither and didn't understand how they were being used, however sub-consciously.

"Slept with a lot of men?" Sure. When you're looking for redemption in a haystack, you have to move a lot of hay.

"Alcoholic" No. But I can sure as hell see where, if I'd ever given up hope, the bottle would have been a handy refuge from the storm.

"Prick" Probably...at least some of the time. Anger for sure. Without feeling entitled to direct it up the family tree at people who did the best they could with the tools they had, I've found a lot of easy targets to take it out on. On weak people, mainly. People who didn't have the intellect or the verbal skills to hang in the fight. People, like my dad, who didn't care enough to engage the fight to its possible victorious outcome. Therefore, weak people are nauseating. They can't help. They're not the strong men whose love I missed out on or pissed away and with whom I'd give my life to reconcile.

Where's a therapist when you need him? I'm stuck between a question and an answer and I could sure use a Good Guy at the crossroads to shine a light in this direction or that. Pappy was there in childhood. Sam was there at 16. Jerry was there at 22. (Lest he achieve sainthood by being included in this list, he did say to me, "I was really only interested in you because you were a virgin.") The man I called "Uncle Joe" mentored me through my career, assuring me that I was peerlessly gifted.

Pappy gave me hope. Sam gave me my voice. Jerry helped me find my identity. Ol' Joe helped me earn enough money to be comfortable in these years of disability. None of them can help today. It looks like it's up to me...and The Good Doctor. Oh.....and note to Jerry.....I wasn't a virgin. Snap!