Family

I think you now see where this is going. Yes, drugs. Her husband has tolerated her prolific pot use, but it’s become a huge problem for the 15-year-old, my sweet, perceptive, loving nephew. This kid was steeped in the DARE program — he came home from kindergarten one afternoon with an “I’m Drug Free” button pinned to his shirt (jeesh, you’d hope so!). He pretty well freaked out when he first figured out his mom was smoking lots of dope. At 11 or 12, he threatened to go to the police. Discretion simmered things down, though there have been occasional flare-ups since. A few months ago, the latest flare-up turned into the full-blown crisis I knew might one day come. When he was sorting the laundry, the son discovered a pipe, in-your-face evidence that Mom still smokes and brings the stuff (or at least the paraphernalia) in the house. He threatened to leave. The dad, laid up recovering from foot surgery, told the mom to leave for a few days, to give some space and to come back with some ideas about how to make things better.

Since my friend returned home a few days later, she’s proposed, tried out and discarded a batch of different fixes. She’d finally see a therapist. She’d quit, or try to quit, for, say, six weeks. Well, she’d at least try, but has fears that she’d become a pill junkie to deal with pain (she suffers unholy back problems, a complication to this story for sure). She’d even pee in a cup to prove to her son she was sticking to it. She’d get her medical certificate so her son would see her marijuana use was “legal,” whatever that might mean.

The six-week trial balloon lasted just a few days. Worse, she’s convinced herself she’s staked out the moral high ground: It’s not up to the kids to run the family, and the parents need to reinstate the rightful order of things. She fully expects her husband to support her, and if not, to not interfere between her and the son. Now, with the medical certificate, she’s resumed smoking with even less discretion. To her, a smoke in the backyard qualifies as not smoking in the house. Needless to say, her son found her out again and now, for him, she can change or he can go.

She has as recently as a month ago told me that my opinion about all this means the world to her and she hopes I tell her what I think. Yes, maybe.

I can’t imagine losing her friendship, but more than that, I can’t stand by and see my nephew in this position.

You see, my friend and I are a lot alike. We’ll find a way to redefine any argument so that we win, so that we can have our way. Our lousy parents did a good job teaching us how to win arguments at any cost. I can tell her this lovingly and gently. I can tell her this really isn’t about restoring parental order. It’s not like the son set out to dictate what happens in the house. He is truly anguishing about the contradictions and deceit he sees. I can tell her I’m worried about what she’s willing to give up so that she can keep smoking pot. I can tell her the lies, justifications, sneaking, self-medication, blame-shifting and defiance don’t seem all that different to me than an alcoholic’s little tricks. I can tell her what I see is self-destructive and reckless. I can tell her how lucky she is her son has lived his young life trying to live up to his parents’ expectations, to make them proud. I can tell her I think he has earned the right to expect her to take responsibility for her mistakes. I can tell her I know the one thing she never wanted to do was repeat the mistakes of her parents, that I know she’s tried damn hard not to, but that I’m afraid she’s coming precariously close. I can tell her I think the gig is up, and it’s time for her to really decide what she values or risk having, 20 years from now, an adult child who, like us, knows that his parent chose other priorities over him.

I know that if it comes from me, she might actually hear what I have to say. Can I? Should I?

Do I Dare?

Dear Do I Dare,

Yes, by all means, tell her. Pour your heart out to her. Tell her exactly what you feel.

And I will tell you exactly what I feel.

This kid wants his mom back. That is what I feel.

She has gone off somewhere. She is lying and evading. She is not available. He just wants her back.

That is what she needs to face. She needs to face her son.

Why can’t she face her son? Is she already full of shame? Is she already so afraid of what she will see in his face that she cannot come into the house from the backyard and look him in the eye and say she’s sorry for wandering off?

It could be that what awaits her, her own storehouse of childhood pain, is too great already.

So she finds solace in her pot, the little bag in her purse, the tiny, fragrant bud flaring up in the pipe, the sweet leaf rolling up into solace, rolling up into relief, the leaf of relief, the bud of beginning, the pot of gold. Yeah, we all need something.

But it’s a question of the pot or her kid and what she’s going to choose. It’s down to that. If she chooses to keep smoking pot, she is telling her kid to fuck off.

That is what she is saying. That is what it feels like. It feels like Mom is saying, Go fuck yourself you little piece of shit. Go fuck yourself. And that is likely what he will do with his pain. He will fuck himself with it. That is, he will turn it inward, just like his parents and their parents and their parents. And so the cycle of infliction will continue, unspoken pain transmitted generation to generation on carrier waves of silence.

Yeah. That’s real sweet. That’s changing the world for sure.

So yeah, here I am getting in touch with a little of that kid’s anger myself. Yeah, we just want our mommies. It’s not complicated. We just want them to come down out of the trees, out of the clouds, out of the stores, out of the car and the jewelry store and the backyard or wherever the fuck they are and come into the house and look us in the eyes. That’s all. It’s not complicated. It’s not about the drugs. It’s just what we need. We’re not trying to take over. It’s just what we need. We just need our moms back.

And though in her case it is about a substance, it can center around anything. It can center around the TV, the job, the nervousness. It’s about the same thing: It’s about the disconnectedness. It’s about feeling alone. Teenagers sense their parents’ fear. We feel their evasion, their emotional blankness. We long for one uncomplicated face, one clear moment, one frank, settled exchange. We long for emotional connection. It’s not complicated. It’s just real.

So get real with this friend of yours, this mom. And try to get her to get real with her kid. Remind her what it felt like to be a kid. Remind her of that.

What I mean to say is that you and she never got what you wanted from your parents, right? And so you have gotten along the best you can. She is replacing what she never got from her parents with this pot, this best friend of hers. Naturally. But in making that replacement, she is repeating. In filling that void, she is perpetuating the cycle of deprivation. It is hard for someone who is using a substance for that purpose to see what she is doing, because the reason she is using the substance is to avoid seeing why she is using it. She will have to stop using it to see why she is using it. That will hurt, no doubt. She will have to start feeling again that original deprivation.

Maybe, with your urging, she can find the strength to do that. But probably not on her own. People need help to get through something like that. It is too painful to do alone. It is like losing your best friend, to give up the pot. It is hard. It is really hard to do with will power alone, or through insight or the urgings of a friend.

So if you can urge her to do anything, urge her to get help with it. If your urging can accomplish anything, it can perhaps accomplish that one thing.

It takes courage and strength not to repeat, because repetition feels like repair. We focus so hard on not being like our parents that we become just like our parents. It is our tragic fate. In fleeing our childhood, we return to it. Yeah, and blah blah blah, more pseudo mystical babbling. But you know it’s true.

It’s not too late. It just takes staying in touch with that pain, that emptiness, not trying to fill it or blunt it but honoring it, being grateful for it, using it like wisdom and memory because that’s what it is, that pain, that’s what it’s there for. It’s knowledge. It is a reminder what not to do. It is the psyche’s way of saying stop it right here, in this generation. Do not continue that awful strange blankness for another generation. Leave the bucket empty. Do not carry that bad water. Leave it at the spring where you found it.

She’s got to choose between her kid and the pot.

- – - – - – - – - – - -

What? You want more?

Why? you may ask. Because he is a complete and utter slob! He grew up on a farm and spends lots of time outside tending to his garden and fixing his many lawnmowers that he has fished out of the trash. I spend hours cleaning, all for him to destroy the house in literally a matter of minutes. It is ridiculous. To add insult to injury he does not wash his hands … EVER. Not even after going poo … I feel like I was hoodwinked and bamboozled, because there is no way in hell I would have ever put myself in a situation to live with one of my parents at this point and time in my life. I have expressed my frustration with the situation, but he doesn’t want to ever talk about it. I want to move, but right now I am not financially stable and I am so close to finishing school, I don’t want to jeopardize my studies.

Grown Woman Living in Daddy’s House

Dear Grown Woman Living in Daddy’s House

I don’t think you are an ungrateful daughter. I think you are a person reacting to a shitty situation in an understandable way.

After years of being self-sufficient you’ve been thrown back into dependent daughterhood. That has got to trigger some feelings you’re not prepared for. That’s got to be tough on the ego. It would be hard for it not to matter how well your father handled it.

And he’s not handling it all that sensitively, one must say. When our  survival is symbolically threatened, we sometimes reassure ourselves by making our immediate surroundings clean and healthy and spotless. It’s a good thing to do if you’re feeling threatened and insecure; it can cheer you up to clean house. So here’s an interesting symbolic contradiction: Here you have come to your dad to help you survive, and he is providing for you, yet also doing things that symbolically threaten your survival: Dirt, poo, infection, disease, loss of control!

Subconsciously it may be felt as aggression: Your dad is threatening your survival rather than nurturing it. He’s bringing danger into the house. He’s bringing dirt and disease into the house, meaning, symbolically, into your body. So he’s polluting you when you are trying to regain your strength. The literal-minded may quibble but we’re talking about emotions that take place below our conscious awareness, in the language of symbols.

On the surface he’s doing you a favor, and good for him. But he’s also not admitting your personhood or your power: He’s retaining his own power over his own place. That’s the prerogative of property ownership in a society that worships property. You are expected to grant him the prerogatives of ownership. But he’s not accommodating you, really, as a person. It may even feel as though he’s trying to push you out.

His hospitality may be begrudging; his messing up the house may be passive-aggressive; he probably wants to go on living as he is accustomed to living. There may also be some unspoken disapproval of your reversal of fortune, and perhaps a little unspoken “I told you so,” if you have been too independent for his liking. He may even be enjoying being the father to a relatively helpless daughter once again — a daughter who cannot force him to wipe his feet.

Assuming your parents are divorced, is he also repeating a pattern of conflict he had with your mother? Could be. They could have had fights over just such things. If those fights led to their divorce, you may also be experiencing uncomfortable memories of an earlier symbolic threat to your survival. Also, not to jump ahead, but this could also be a preview of the role reversal that happens as your dad ages and weakens and you take on the role of caretaker, being sure he washes his hands and wipes his feet, as a mother would do in raising a child.

But that’s just the messy symbolic stuff it’s my job to dredge up. On the surface, in the practical present, you’re a capable adult woman in control of her life and career. You’ve made yourself a plan that requires you to do some compromising. That’s what this is: It’s a conscious compromise. You’re still making your own choices. This is just temporary.

You’ve found shelter in a bad time. Your dad is your ally. He loves you. He’s providing you a place.  He’s doing what he can, in his way.

Hang in there, finish your course of study, thank your dad and stay positive. When you look back on this, as uncomfortable as it is now, you’ll be grateful there was a place for you to go. With the passage of time it may even become a fond if bittersweet memory.

I know she loved me more than anything, and she sacrificed a lot to try to give me a good life, but as a kid, I felt as if I was battling her alcoholism for her. I would constantly find single-serving wine bottles stuffed between couch cushions, and it was an almost nightly occurrence for her to drink herself to sleep, leaving the house a mess and me to throw away the empty bottles and rinse out the glasses she would leave next to the couch. After she would go to bed, it was usually a coin flip whether or not she would rise from her sleep to stalk around the house staring blindly at everything and shouting incoherently. More than once she, thoroughly drunk, thought I was a burglar and tried to attack me. The first time this happened I was 11, and in her mind she had gone back in time and thought I was going to steal her baby (me). She nearly strangled me.

What made my childhood much easier was the fact that I had grandparents nearby who did not seem to struggle with alcoholism or poverty or depression. They were good people who seemed to rise above all the stupidity we are capable of. In fact they helped my mother make ends meet on a few occasions, and they always seemed to come to the rescue when we were in a jam. I felt more often than not that my grandparents were like my real parents, and my mother was like some big crazy sister who loved me a lot but was still trying to figure things out.

And from a young age, the lesson they kept quietly teaching me was that alcoholism was a demon in our family. It ran in our blood, and had ruined cousins, uncles and sisters. And the best way to avoid this fate was not to start at all.

And for my part I promised myself that I would never drink, or smoke, or do drugs.

And I never did.

A lot of people may not believe me, but I have never so much as sipped a beer, or taken a drag from a cigarette. And there is my problem. Everyone who knows me knows that I don’t drink, and I feel like I’ve put myself in this box where I will never drink.

This was fine for my early 20s, and in some ways I felt superior for not having blown hundreds of dollars at the bars, or woken up with hangovers, or been so drunk I couldn’t remember what happened to me. I have always been in control of my life, and that is something I take pride in.

But I also feel like there is this whole side to life that I may be missing out on, and that maybe I should relax these rules I’ve created for myself. I feel that a lot of people can’t relate to the fact I don’t drink, and I also would sometimes really like to be able to have a beer with my friends and be their equal, and not this always-sober outsider. A few weeks ago at a champagne brunch with friendly strangers who didn’t know I don’t drink, the waiter poured me a glass of champagne, and when they toasted I held it up and looked at it for a long time before I realized my wife was staring at me.

What to do?

Dear What to Do,

Testing yourself for alcoholism is like testing yourself for flammability. You’re probably not. But what if you are?

“Given the fact that alcohol-dependence seems highly heritable,” why take the risk?

Why not instead ask what needs alcohol might satisfy, and then find other ways to satisfy those same needs? Why not seek safe, life-enhancing alternatives to drinking? Why not read Abraham Maslow and design your life around the quest for peak experiences?

We raise our glasses and drink ceremonially to sanctify some event or passage. We all drink from the same bottle. By imbibing the same drink, we are joined; it is a kind of sacrament. You can mime the gestures but something pulls you to fully engage. Of course it does. This is not just about getting a little champagne in your mouth. It is a powerful ritual.

My suggestion is to find even better ways, more direct, honest and compelling ways to have this same ritual bonding and expression of shared esteem and purpose. I suggest you make this a lifelong pursuit. Make it a way of undoing for good the perhaps multigenerational history of alcoholism in your family.

This way, if those who dispute the role of genes in alcoholism are correct, and behavioral factors are more important, then you will still be doing something to eradicate certain behaviors that were leading to case after case of alcoholism. You will be finding something that members of your family have a particular need for, and satisfying that need.

Look for something that seems cool but not too cool, something you’ve always wanted to do, something you’re drawn to, that’s maybe a little outside your normal range but not totally kooky and weird.

For instance, it may be possible to participate in the ecstatic communality of a sweat lodge. I don’t know. Maybe a sweat lodge would be too weird for you. I don’t know how much facial hair you have, or what your body mass index is. I’m just saying, identify the underlying principle and then find something that suits your social tastes.

That there are things wrong in the world, that there are things so awful in this world that knowledge of them drives us to want to blot them out of consciousness. Read today’s piece by Noam Chomsky, for instance, for a reminder of how thinly “normal American life” veils our history of brutal atrocities.

How are you supposed to think about these things and not feel as though you are going mad? How are you supposed to have a conscience and not feel trapped by history? How are you to take all this in, as a young person? How to reconcile knowledge of evil done in one’s name with the innocent desire to believe in one’s country, to identify with one’s countrymen, to feel strong and patriotic and confident about the future?

These, too, are legitimate questions. So, my friend, I urge you to take seriously the genetic and environmental risk factors for alcoholism, and actively seek ways to have ecstatic experiences in this insane world without killing yourself. Adopt adaptive behaviors that don’t make things worse.

My family never tires of doing the math: When I’m in my late 30s, he will be turning 60; when I’m in my late 50s (my mother’s current age), he will be approaching 80! And then I will be all alone in my old age, when I need a partner the most.

But after I listen to their forecast of illness and doom, I return to my life and am reminded of how happy he makes me, in the now. He’s the kind of person who insists on taking care of his friends’ cats every time they go away; who remembers the birthdays of all of his nieces and nephews (he doesn’t have kids of his own); who doesn’t like to talk much but always says hello to the doorman and to the neighbors in the elevator; who goes out early in the morning and shovels snow for a neighborhood school where he takes classes. He puts the same care, respect and attention into our daily interactions. He loves me fiercely, and I’ve never felt so happy or safe in a relationship.

Don’t think that our relationship is based on the stereotypical pursuit of money and beauty. I recently graduated from an Ivy League college and plan to get an MBA. He never went to college and has been working with his hands his whole life. We both recognize that I’ll likely have greater earning power in the future. But our having different backgrounds is actually a great thing. We never run out of things to talk about, and we appreciate the different things that each of us brings to the table.

Despite our different backgrounds, we fit well together. We both grew up as outsiders in our respective communities and have similar sensibilities and values. We share a passion for the same sport, for which we train together almost every day (that’s how we met). We communicate easily with each other and have never even come close to having a fight. And when one of us tells a joke, odds are that the other is the only one laughing when everyone else would stare with confused faces. In the six months we’ve been dating, things have fallen in place so easily that I have pretty much forgotten the age gap.

But not quite. My family’s prediction of future misery and resentment for me is always lurking in the shadows. Every time I talk with my mother, she mercilessly shines a glaring light on the monster, and it scares me. Recently, my traditional Asian family has called upon the ancient duty of filial piety and commanded me to end this relationship. It’s for your own good, they tell me. You can always find someone your own age to love.

I’m angry that my family is ordering me to make a very personal decision. At the same time I wonder, what if they are right? What if I fight for this relationship and alienate my family, only to find myself caring for an aging partner and young kids when I’m still building my career? Is our happiness now — and this overwhelming sense that “this is right” in every other way — worth taking this risk? And if the answer is yes, how do I explain this to my family?

Please help, Cary. I would really appreciate your thoughts.

Torn

Dear Torn,

I suggest you take more time with this. You’ve only been dating for six months.

It’s kind of odd, don’t you think, that in thinking about the future your family sees only one scenario, the tragically poor widow, bereft of companionship and burdened with a younger woman’s labors? No one seems to have mentioned that the very genius of planning is that you can plan for any future. You do not have to plan just for the catastrophic future of your worst imaginings. You can plan calmly and reasonably for a future in which one mate will retire sooner, age sooner and probably die sooner.

If you are planning to get an MBA then you must be acquainted with methods of estate planning and investment strategies. It seems a straightforward exercise to consider how an estate would be planned to take into account the age difference, as well as the differences in earnings that you have already mentioned.

Such a rational approach ignores what is really going on: For a variety of reasons, your family is fearful and upset.

Think how they must fear the awkwardness of their daughter having a husband who is only a few years younger than they are. This is not what they were expecting. They were expecting a young man upon whom they could look as a son. You do not say if this man is Asian, but if he is not, that introduces another difficulty for your family. They will have to adjust to the idea of a man who does not look like them or act like them, and who is nearly their age; they will have to adjust to the idea, if you have children, of children who look blended.

Speaking of children: Does he want to have children with you? Can he? Why does he have no kids? What about you? Do you want kids? Are you sure? Have you thought about it deeply?

There are a million other issues this raises. I have looked at them and thought about them but it is the larger picture that I want to talk about:

The world is changing. Your family must know this. That does not mean they are happy about it. They may feel a deep sense of loss of heritage and destiny. Who knows how they feel? Imagine what a comfort it must be to people of traditional cultures to look backward and forward in time and see in either direction an unbroken procession of people who look just this way and live just this way, and who far into the future will continue to look just this way and live just this way. How beautiful and reassuring that must be! Who would easily relinquish such a vision?

So please, do not scorn or disregard what your family is going through. It is not inconsequential or shallow.

But this is not just about you, either. You are awash in a great historical struggle. On one side are the myriad forces of globalism and modernity, threatening to wash away thousands of years of cultural continuity with a few clicks of a mouse. And frankly, as a romantic, individualistic, secular Westerner, I do think the future belongs to the pioneers and inventors, the scientists and entrepreneurs who will create a new world but in doing so will lay to waste the fragile ancient world that birthed us.

It seems to me that the world goes the way of the seafarer bringing strange germs to aboriginals, the way of strange new tools and tongues, and that we must and will increasingly mix and blend ourselves into fractal mirrors of each other, and learn to shepherd global flows of capital and genes, and since we must adapt or perish, why not fling ourselves joyfully, head-first into this raging and inevitable future, instead of being dragged into it by our heels?

You can’t reasonably expect your family to embrace this. To them it must look like just so much carnage and outrage. Nevertheless, you are part of a great, global awakening.

So think on these things and think about how the world is changing and where you want to be in that world, and think, too, about the magic of love and how it can, indeed, if given the chance, at times, conquer everything.

Whether it’s worth taking the risk may finally depend on who you are and what cultural system is most deeply embedded in your psyche. Are you a Westerner at heart? Are you a part of the Western romantic tradition, the tradition of individualism and love conquering all? Do you believe in the power of romantic love to overcome social obstacles? Do you? Are you that person? Or are you more deeply, at heart, your mother’s daughter?

Whom do you belong to? Do you belong to yourself, to the state, to your family, to God? How can you know? The answers are of course plural. You belong to your family and to yourself, to the state, to your friends and to your God if you think of the imponderable in such terms.

In any case, you don’t have to marry this man right away.

So take your time. See how things develop. Bring him around and see how the family responds. Maybe in time they will warm up to him, discover their similarities and overlook the differences.

Maybe.

But anyway just wanted to say that best as I can tell from the first name on the email address the following letter comes from a person of the female gender.

That is all. Except yes, I understand that we are in a rapidly changing environment genderwise. Let’s just let the changes happen as they happen. We don’t have to be proving ourselves to each other how sensitive we are to cultural shifts constantly. If you are busy felling trees or making advertisements or fighting a war or creating new kinds of facial makeup and don’t have the time or inclination to follow every small shift in gender politics I think that’s probably healthy.

But maybe it’s a youth thing too. Like following the pop charts and who’s in and out. It’s a sharply transitory collection of fast-moving data.

I try to be sensitive to individuals and their complexities. But I like my old, well-used tools, words like “husband” and “wife,” with all their old, cartoonish associations, like “castle” and “horse.”

Forgive me my crankiness. I got woken up too many times during the night by the old dog making his nervous, coughing complaints. Plus this warm, dry weather we’ve having in California in January is just spooky and a little creepy and scary. It’s got us all a little on edge.

So could I please just for heaven’s sake just get on to the letter now?

OK. I could.

Dear Cary,

I feel so frustrated. I’m naturally an introvert, so it’s hard for me to make friends and I feel like I have no one to talk to and no one to hang around with.

My entire life I’ve hated my dad. He’s cruel, treats me like a possession or a pet that he reluctantly finances but doesn’t really care about, and for a long time, when I was younger, we had physical fights as well. My older brother got the worst of that and my younger brother got some of it as well, and as a result, we’re all messed up and can’t hold our tempers. We all can’t stand losing or being “wrong” because our entire lives we’ve been taught we’re less than my dad, we don’t know anything, and that we’re always wrong. We were physically weaker so we always lost. Now this puts a strain on my relationship with my siblings because none of us can back down.

My mom and I are best friends but she lets everything go by. She’s always said we should give in and she’ll talk sense to my dad later, but stupid pride has always kept me from being able to do that. Something inside of me just won’t give in when he’s yelling at me like I’m worthless. She never gives a firm ruling in anything, even when my siblings and I would have arguments, and always wants to “compromise” to avoid confrontation. I understand where she’s coming from, as her dad is exactly like mine and she married young into the cycle. She’s lived in that environment her entire life and now she just wants to pretend it doesn’t exist.

I’m 21 years old and a senior in college, so I get a break by living on campus during the week and only coming home to work and attend church on the weekends. But during holidays and the summer it’s really hard for me to be in close proximity with the rest of my family. Especially now that my best friend, who is Mormon, has gone on a year and a half mission where the only contact she is allowed to have is through written letters, I’ve been feeling even more isolated. I don’t belong anywhere. Nothing I ever do is worth it. Nothing is ever good enough and I feel frustrated and helpless. I know I should just man up and move out, but the thought of supporting myself completely while finishing my degree seems so impossible that I tell myself I’d rather live at home and suffer than move out. It’s weak and pathetic, I know, but I won’t move out.

I just don’t know what to do anymore. I worry I’ll be alone forever because I’m scared to trust anyone for fear they’ll be just like my father and grandfather. I’m tired of being controlled. I’m depressed. I feel like my life has no purpose, like it means nothing.

Lost and confused,

Always Last

Dear Always Last,

So here are some things. So you are going to have a lot of strong feelings from this for a long time and they are going to be with you and so you are going to need to get used to them and not fight them or fear them because they are just feelings and feelings are not facts, even though that is a cliche and even though feelings feel a lot like facts. In fact feelings sometimes feel more like facts than facts do. But the facts are different, and college is actually a great place to begin sorting all that out. The facts are that you have a certain kind of father and a certain kind of relationship that results in certain kinds of feelings. And because the feelings are your feelings you naturally treat them as important. And that’s fine. That’s good. They are important. But they are not the only thing there is.

The idea as you grow into adulthood is to get big enough inside for all your feelings. Take a deep breath. Expand. Expand to take in all your feelings. You can hold them all. Maybe sit and meditate for a while and let all your feelings be. You can’t act on all of them all at once. You can’t do anything about them a lot of the time. So your task is to learn to walk around with them, letting them be there, asking them what they mean, asking them what they’re telling you to do, making friends with them.

Some of these feelings are telling you important things, like that it was wrong for your dad to treat you that way, and like you are not the person your dad treated you as, and like it is unfortunate in the extreme that you had to go through that with him. But these feelings will also tell you things that are just not true, like that nothing you ever do is worth it, or nothing is ever good enough. Those things are just not true. They might feel true but they’re not empirically true, and what you are in college for is to get comfortable with the empirical, because it will save your life. The empirical is outside you. It is bigger than you. Empirically speaking, much of what you go on to do will absolutely be worth it, and much of what you do will absolutely be good enough. For instance, your writing to me was worth it and good enough. It was definitely good enough. Your just walking around today is good enough. Your just being kind to your friends and family and getting through the day is good enough.

There is a lot about your life that is worth it and good enough. So some of what your dad left you with is all these helpless feelings and untrue statements. So your task as you get to be 22 and 23 will be to sort out the phenomenologically true statements about your feelings, like, I feel angry toward my dad and I feel hopeless and sad, from the empirically untrue statements like nothing I do will ever be good enough and I am a failure and I am unloved.

You are loved. You are good enough. You just had a dad who didn’t treat you right. It’s not your fault. It’s his fault. Your job for the next few years is to routinely work toward overcoming the bad and stupid ideas he left you with. “I’m not good enough” is a bad and stupid idea and it needs to be replaced with empirically sensible ideas such as “I can do the things I set out to do” and “Good enough for what?” by the way.

OK?

You have a whole life to live. Your feelings are going to be there and sometimes they are going to be uncomfortable and you are going to want to punch people and that is fine. That is nothing to be afraid of. Eventually things are going to make more sense and you are going to sort things out. So think of it this way. When you were 8 you had feelings and you had to learn to sort them out and you did. You did well. You got through being 8. It wasn’t easy. Eight never is. Eight is tough. It’s a lot of work moving on to 9 but you did it. And then 10. You did 10. No easy one either. Imagine. All those years you got through already. So now you’re 21 and you’re going to get through this one as well. And you are going to be angry at times and it’s scary but you are going to get through it.

And you are going to learn to identify the various feelings you have from growing up with your dad and learn to know what they are and where they come from and make decisions anyway and live your life anyway. Like this trust thing you have. You are going to see this distrust come up and you are going to know what it is and even though you know that your dad is only one man in the universe and every man is not your dad this trust thing is going to come up. So when it comes up you are going to learn to say to yourself and possibly to the man in question, you know, after growing up with my dad and all, I have this trust thing, just so you know.

So that is my letter to you this morning, on this strange and irritability-producing young morning.

Oh, and another thing: It goes by really fast, so pay attention to the good moments. Have as many good moments as you can. You’ll enjoy remembering them later.

My hometown was always a bit small for me. I always craved traveling and living (for a time at least) in a big city. As a result, I’ve moved from a city of about 500,000 to one of almost 3 million. Most of my family has stayed back home, 90 percent of whom live in the same state and 90 percent of those in the same city. They can and do see each other pretty much weekly. My work schedule and finances allow that maybe a few times a year. I talk with my parents weekly, but rarely anyone else, especially my sisters (two of whom still live in our hometown). Recently my grandmother had a heart attack (albeit a mild one, thankfully), and I found myself guilty that I wasn’t home like most of my family to be there. Though I must admit, part of this guilt came from feeling like fellow family members were a bit resentful that I wasn’t home either. Also recently, I learned from my dad that his father is still suffering from severe depression from the death of my grandmother three years ago, and he asked me to give him a call, if only to say hi.

I can catch an earful sometimes from my parents about not talking enough to people I should (especially my grandparents), and I feel genuinely guilty for not doing so, but another part of me just doesn’t make the time to do so. I can be told I should call so-and-so just to say hi, but I find myself never consciously making the time to do so. I love my parents and sisters and grandparents and family, but I just don’t ever make time to call and say hi. To be fair, I never really make the time to call just to chat with anyone, but why can’t I find the motivation to do so with my family?

My family also tells me that my nephew, who is particularly close to me, misses me a lot and he wishes that I lived back home again. To which I can only shrug. I like my life in the big city and being on my own, but it’s clear that I’m breaking with the tradition of my family of having a close-knit (again, literally and figuratively) relationship. I feel guilty for living 1,300 miles away; I feel guilty when I have to fly back after a holiday visit; but most of all I feel guilty that I don’t have the urge to talk to them on a semi-regular basis and that sometimes I out-and-out dread it. I have no reason really to resent my family. They’ve never done anything that would make me want to disown them, but I feel incredibly selfish that I sometimes find talking to them a chore (and I don’t know if family members think of me as selfish as well); that I’m not as close to everyone as my sisters are; and that I would often prefer to spend more time alone or with friends than with family. Why do I find interaction with them to be a chore sometimes? Why can’t I be the family member that everyone else seems to be? What’s wrong with me?

The Black Sheep

Dear Black Sheep,

I suggest you do two things, one long-term and one short-term. In the short term: Call your nephew. Just call. It’s that time of year.

In the long term … well, let’s just stick with the short term a little more. In the short term: Make the calls you have been putting off. Be honest. Pick somebody, one person in your family that you can be honest with. Maybe your nephew is too young to get into all this with. So maybe your nephew is not the person to get honest with. But get honest with somebody. Pick somebody in your family you can be honest with. Call that person. If it’s hard to make the call, say it’s hard. If it’s hard to be living so far away, say it’s hard to be living so far away. If you feel bad for not being more in touch, say you feel bad for not being more in touch.

You can do these things. You’ll feel better after you do. It’s the holiday season. Lots of people are having a hard time. A few people are just filled with holiday good cheer and making everyone else feel like losers, but most are neither ecstatic nor depressed, just trying to get stuff done and put a good face on it. Many people are seeing family members they don’t see often, in social settings that are novel and fast-changing; certain people are going to be overwhelmed by too much contact; others are going to be impatient with the ones who are overwhelmed; certain people will be having surprisingly strong reactions to stuff for no apparent reason and only later will be sorting out why they had these reactions. Dread of certain conversations will be rampant. Certain people will drink too much and make confessions. In others, long-held resentments will flower. Feelings will be hurt accidentally, even by people with the best of intentions. The young, hip and beautiful will sneak out, have their pleasures, and radiate derision and boredom toward the rest. Many will feel alone even when surrounded by love. Most of us will somehow get through it.

You’re not bad. Maybe you’re different. But that doesn’t make you bad. Maybe you have higher hopes and dreams than the others. That doesn’t make you bad. You’re following your dream.

What can you tell your family members? You can tell them that you love them and miss them and you’re following your dream. You’re doing what you have to do.

And, long-term, I guess the thing is, and this goes for pretty much all the letters I’ve ever answered: Long-term, for the rest of your life, you are going to occasionally have conflicting feelings and you will need to develop a method for determining what is going on. I mean stopping in the middle of a feeling and sitting down on the floor or on a wall or at your desk and asking yourself, with passion, with courage, with commitment to the truth: What is going on? What am I feeling? Am I running away from something? What am I avoiding here? Is there something present in my consciousness that I don’t understand? Is it possible for me to address this thing, whatever it is, this big ball of avoidance and confusion, this big ball of pain, this big ball of black nothingness from which I very much would like to turn away? What is this thing that has appeared before me? What am I looking at?

That’s what you need to do long-term: Interrogate your reluctance, your instinctive turning-away; interrogate with love and acceptance: What is this? Is it fear, is it pain, is it a memory? Is it a picture of your grandparents, is it sadness about possibly losing them, is it guilt about not responding sooner, is it fear of being rebuked or scolded? What is here? What is present? Ask yourself, What can I know about myself that I did not know before? What can I accept, with open arms, that I did not accept before? How can I move forward?

And who can I call next?

This is a great topic for the holidays.

I wish everybody a good whatever you’re having. Enjoy the break from the routine, have some laughs, enjoy your friends and family if possible, and do something you haven’t done before.

And make the call.