Contented and Free

I caught a brief scene from “Horton Hears a Who” tonight. The Mayor’s son Jo-Jo leaves home “for a place where he felt contented and free”. Finding that place man. Where you belong. Home is such a fucked up thing for so many people.

Just thinking back to four years ago…my home life was complete chaos. My daughter had just turned 5. My boy was about to turn 3. And I was living in a hotel. Like Jo-Jo I didn’t belong at home. My house, at the end of my marriage, wasn’t a home. And it was the same way for me growing up.

Both “homes” were just uncomfortable, which is the opposite of what home should be. The scene leading up to Jo-Jo going to his contented and free place had his dad plotting out his future for him. But, Jo-Jo just wanted to be himself. As a result he left, “feeling lonely and sad and tragically misunderstood by his dad.”

I can relate to that. It’s not like I was excited to be kicked out of the house. It’s not like I wanted that for my kids and for me. Lonely and sad…yeah…that fits what my hotel room felt like. It was like the opposite of those cool themed hotel rooms. “Sorry Mr. Atkinson, the Jungle room and the Romeo and Juliet room are unavailable, but I’m sure you’ll find yourself right at home in our Lonely and Sad Suite.”

Thinking back to what it was like at the end of the marriage, I really didn’t have a good handle on who I was. I hadn’t come to terms with or realized I needed to face the shit that I went through in childhood. But, I was a dad and a husband and I settled for that as where I belonged.

But, it just didn’t fit. I wasn’t understood. And I didn’t understand myself. Had I not been kicked out or had I chosen to come back I never could have found what Jo-Jo found. Contented and Free. God, I shake my head realizing that’s what I have now.

I have home. I sit down here and write some words on a blank white page and life has meaning. I learn about myself and bring up things that stir up conversations with other people who want what I want out of life.

I want to heal. I want to improve. I want to be a great dad and I couldn’t have been the dad that I am now without leaving the “home” that we had. I don’t care about giving my kids a home in the traditional sense. I want them to be contented and free with me and with themselves. To know I’m going to walk with them through their shit.

They’ve had a tough start. But, my job is to help them get comfortable with themselves. And make them feel loved. And help them find their place…their comfortable place. If they can find a place where they feel like their real selves, like I do when I write…oh, man that’s all I can hope for them.

With writing, it’s like all the bull shit and stuff that contaminates my thoughts...worries, doubts, fears…all that stuff just goes away. I just get lost on the page and dwell in that space where my thoughts are good thoughts and I can think about stuff rationally and in a way that I have control.

Growing up and in the marriage I had no control. Like Jo-Jo, my shots were called for me. But, that didn’t enable me to be the me I am now. I have to be the one calling the shots and live with the consequences. I left the marriage. I’m taking a break from my dad right now. And those were decisions that have enabled me to get healthier myself. It’s hard, but I made the right decisions.

Oh, man…four years removed from being a walking dead man. I’ll take this little life. It’s like heaven. I didn’t used to have the confidence to exercise my voice. With both my dad and my ex-wife, I let them speak for me. But, that shit just doesn’t work.

Finding my voice and realizing how powerful of a tool writing is for me…that’s when I started coming to life. These last three weeks, I’ve been sick and have barely written at all. I can’t even put in to words how great it is to be feeling a little better and be back typing away at my contented and free place.

The sickness reminded me of that awful feeling of not being in control that I used to get with my dad and my ex-wife. I was beaten down and just couldn’t get enough rest. But, I think what I missed is that I was trying to physically rest at the expense of the mental and emotional rest that comes naturally when I write.

It’s so friggin cool. I put some words on paper and suddenly I feel alive. Happy Fucking Thanksgiving. I’m not living in a shit hole motel. Or in a house that’s not a home. My beautiful kids are sleeping in the next room. This is a great life. So thankful.