Love That Will Not Betray Dismay or Enslave

Home. I’m trying my best to figure out how to create that for the kids. As I was writing my morning pages this morning I thought of the Mumford and Sons lyric, “Love that will not betray, dismay or enslave you. It will set you free to be more like the man you were made to be.” That’s home, right?

Home isn’t a house or nice things (maybe I have to say that because I have neither), but instead it’s that safe place, where you’re yourself. I want my kids to be themselves when they’re with me. I want to be their home. It’s okay. Daddy’s here. I’ve got this.

I want to instill confidence in them. To make them see and feel that they are in fact as great as I think they are. I want them to feel loved and to know what they’re capable of.

I think my lack of confidence with my writing started with a lack of confidence in myself. I used to dwell on a single mistake and let it offset all the good I’d done. I’d replay my fuck ups and let them blind me to my successes. I needed my parents to set the record straight…to make me see through the fog of my fuck ups that I am gifted. That I am unique.

I feel unique and gifted and at home with myself these days, but that’s been an uphill battle since I grew up feeling uncomfortable at home. So, I try really hard to make the kids feel comfortable. They need comfort. They need to cry. And let shit out. And learn how to deal with stuff when they’re feeling off.

My entire life I felt off. I thought it was normal. I had no idea that I could talk through and write through my shit. My marriage therapist threw pills and books at me. Take these. Read this. That’ll fix you right up. Now, write me a check for my valuable time.

The time he yelled at me telling me I was acting like a child woke me up to who he really was. He wasn’t home. He wasn’t safe. He was my dad. He was my ex wife. He said the words he was on my side, but his actions didn’t back that up.

My current therapist found my heart right away. And that’s why I let out a flood of tears when I knew she wasn’t going to judge me or yell at me or try to fit me into her little box of answers for Christians with problems. All those fucked up years of pent up and undealt with emotion came out in a single therapy session. I was home.

That’s a pretty overwhelming feeling. It’s what I’d been missing the whole time. I was free to be me. I told my story as it was, not editing it because my therapist had a picture of Jesus on her wall. And her love hasn’t betrayed, dismayed or enslaved me.

She’s helped me see my greatness. I wrote something for her soon after my first visit. She said, “Matt, I can’t tell you how many times I read that.” She’s encouraged me like crazy since to keep writing and get that book written and write an article to submit to magazines, etc. And slowly, I’m getting there. Making the blog public was the first step. I don’t know why I’m going about it so deliberately…maybe I’m still the little kid who lacks confidence.

I can’t remember if I wrote this on the blog or not, but I observed recently that in T-Ball and soccer, my favorite first grade sports, I was awesome. They called me Super Kid at recess on the soccer field and I was the fastest kid on the TBall team. But, soon after that I got scared of the pitcher in baseball and intimidated by more aggressive kids in soccer. I wasn’t at home, but not too long before that I’d been really good at those sports. The timing seems to coincide with when shit happened with my grandma. I don’t know if that’s what turned me from confident to fearful, but I was never the same.

I lacked confidence. I didn’t believe in myself. I focused on my flaws instead of my successes. So, to have Dr. Grace turn that stuff around…it’s like a dream. The dad that I am today, I couldn’t have been without her. And there’s no way I would have written everything I’ve written these last 4 years. I just realized I was getting down on myself when I wrote that sentence above about not finishing the book yet, but look at all I’ve written…on this blog…the 300 something posts on my super secret blog…the morning pages. I’m doing the thing that makes me more like myself…I’m writing. A lot. The book will happen when it’s time.

I love the part of being an artist that happens when you drop what you should be doing and do what you really should be doing. Like, right now I should be shopping and cleaning and getting my shit together. But, I needed to sit down and write. So, the house is a mess and the groceries haven’t been bought. I can do that tomorrow. Today…right now…I needed to sit here and write this out. The feeling of calm and home and in control that I get from writing is so much greater than the feeling I get from having all of my ducks in a row. Fuck a duck man. Do those things that give you life. The things that you’re great at.

Do you feel better after you’ve excersized or written or drawn or painted or just sat still and looked around? Holy shit…it’s a beautiful day…let’s go to the park. Let the unimportant go and take care of your soul. Life has too much stuff. It keeps us too busy with shit that just doesn’t matter. Do the stuff that really matters and get to the other stuff if you have time.

Here’s an example from my week. I had a stressful week. I just felt really busy with the kids having a big sleepover bash with their friends, trying to buy a new car, etc. At the sleepover, Blake and his buddy were playing and Riley and her friend were too, so I took some time to do some car research. Blake wanted me to play baseball with him and his buddy. I left the shit that didn’t matter (the car research) and spent time with what did matter (the boy).

So, we played pickle. It’s a game where you have two bases and one runner. The other two players stand by the bases and throw the ball back and forth, trying to get the runner out. I have a childhood memory of my dad playing pickle with my friend Mike and me, but it was painful. It was like my dad couldn’t wait to be done. He was all business. I wanted it to be fun. I wanted Mike to think my dad liked spending time with me. But, as my dad walked away from the game I was close to tears…just so embarrassed. My dad didn’t want to spend time with me…what does that say about me?

So, fast forward a few decades and here’s my big chance to reparent myself as I get to play that game of pickle with my boy and his buddy. We got the bases set up. I explained the game. The kids were super excited. We started to play. Then, the girls came out and distracted Blake as I was throwing the ball to him. I hit him square on the shoulder blade. Huge tears. Mission accomplished, right?

Oh shit. I felt so bad. The great chance to have fun with the boy and laugh and play like I had wanted to when I was a kid instead turned into “Holy crap did I break a bone?” Just like I said…forget the unimportant stuff (the car) so that you can bring your son to tears.

He ended up being fine and wanted to keep the game going. And it was awesome. Just seeing him run and get a serious look on his face when he tried to catch the ball…and the laughter…all of it was great. He was home. He was doing what he loved with his dad. He knows his dad wants to spend time with him. Ahhh. Love that will not betray, dismay or enslave.

Blake can just be a kid. That’s enough of a challenge. You don’t need adults betraying dismaying and enslaving you. But, some of us had that. It happened. Now we’re adults. We can talk through and write through and deal with that bull shit. Turn the tables. Fuck all those who hurt kids. Fuck em.

More Mumford…“It was not your fault but mine. It was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time. Didn’t I my dear?” Yeah. You did. But, I get to give my kids something better. I get to heal. And god damn I hope that they get that they’re great at so many things. I hope it doesn’t take them till their 40 to see how well they write, or paint, or account, or teach, or serve people dinner.

It’s crazy how they light up when I say things like, “You built that by yourself? Oh, man you’d be a great Architect when you grow up.” Or “You love to plan parties don’t you Riley? Do you know that can be your job when you get older?”

I adore them. And can’t get enough of seeing the light bulb go off in their head that they’re capable of being anything. I want them to feel good about the things they’re good at, but more than that I want them to know that they’re awesome as is.

It’s crazy really. I wouldn’t have wanted them to be me or want to be me when they were first born. I was lost. I was a mess. So depressed. Just not myself. But, during the pickle game I caught a ball real casually without really looking. Blake thought it was so cool and tried to do it too. Kid wants to be me. And I’m okay with that.