Story Time with My Daughter

For the second morning in a row, somehow the ride to school provided Riley and me the chance to chat it up. Story time with my 13 year old girl. Pretty great. I was shaking my head the whole way home after dropping her off.

So, yesterday I facebook statused about getting a chance to talk to riley about finding our voice. I talked about how important this blog has been in helping me do that. And I made sure she understood how proud I was of her and that I saw her youtube channel as her outlet for finding her voice. Her personality is so cute. Seeing her come into her own. Knowing she believes in herself. All that is right there plain to see as I watch her pursue her you tube dreams.

Fame and fortune isn’t why I blog. And it shouldn’t be why she youtubes, although I’m sure that’s part of it when she sees her youtube idols doing so well financially. I told her that the reason I blog is because it helps me process my stuff.

And to be able to have my shit on display for the world to see is like my way of saying fuck off to all the fake I grew up with. Here’s reality. Here’s my shit. I don’t have it together. I’m damaged. And I fuck up constantly. But, here’s me trying to get on top of it all. Here’s me trying to get it right.

And that’s why today’s conversation with riley was so powerful to me. I love nothing more than getting inboxed by random people from different phases of my life who read this blog. So much bull shit is cut through. They know I desire the real and get right into either what’s going on in their life or how they could relate to the blog or whatever. It’s priceless. Story time gold man. And so to have the equivalent of a real heart to heart story time with riley today…I literally can’t even believe it happened.

The conversation seemed so random. I was doing my fatherly duty and telling the kids what rickrolling was. I told them about how the foo fighters rick rolled the W*stboro B*ptist “church”. And I guess riley already knew about them and blake didn’t. so, we talked about that for a bit and the part that got me was how little kids could be forced to take on the beliefs of their crazy parents.

And the kids were shocked, but then it allowed me to make the point that it happens all the time. Kids believe what their parents tell them to….from “No sweetie…I didn’t hurt you…you dreamed it.”…to let’s ignore how fucked up we are, but pray that our neighbors find the Lord. I didn’t give those examples, but there’s so much bull shit that kids are forced to ingest and live out because of parents who refuse to be real.

What I told the kids today was that their mom believes one thing. And I believe another. And the last thing I ever want to do is tell them what to believe. They get to decide for themselves. And think for themselves. And hopefully learn to appreciate other viewpoints. I told them that the most profound experience I ever had with Jesus had nothing to do with church. I fucked up and knew it and got grace when I didn’t deserve it. That became my religion. A Jesus who met me where shit got real not the typical routine that frank turner sings about, “clutching at the empty rituals.”

There’s just too much fucking following of traditions. And the worst fucking tradition is that westboro hate bullshit. The thing is, it’s not that far off from American christianity’s bullshit. Too much fucking finger pointing and not nearly enough people raising their hands saying “I fucked up” or “I am fucked up.” “no seriously guys…I’m drunk right now.” Ha…that would be a fun church.

But really, that’s what I want to be different about this space. I don’t have it together. I don’t pretend to. But, I know I love every real conversation I’ve had with other heart-broken, fucked up people a hell of a lot more than I ever liked having someone tell me I’m doing it wrong. Fuck church. It’s not a popular thing to say in some circles, but man when I said that and literally walked out of a service, I also prayed, “God, come get me if you’re real.” And he did.

My rituals are no longer empty. My conversations mean something. I don’t think like everyone else and I don’t expect anyone to completely agree with me. But, the thing is when you’re talking your own story…there’s nothing to argue about. This is where I hurt. This is how I hurt. And then the other person says the equivalent of “amen” or “me too” or “I’ll fucking drink to that”. there's no arguing over different religious viewpoints. you just end up arguing over who gets to buy the next round, because you've got a lot more stories to get to.

and i got another round of story time yesterday...getting to have one of the greatest lunches I can remember with my best pal. He’s a guy who has listened and been there every step of the way and I’d be completely fucked without him. and to hear his response to the latest thing I fucked up was unbelievable. He flipped it on me. I was sure the world had ended and he only saw my growth. How I would have handled the situation a few months ago or a few years ago. It meant the fucking world, because it meant I am actually getting better. My healing can seem like a slow and never-ending process, but he was right.

I can’t tell you how encouraging that was. To know that writing 3 pages every day for the last 8ish years (with some gaps) has been huge to me coming to be who I am today. and so has leaving the church and seeking out real people and real conversation. I don’t care if you think I’m a complete fuck up. Well, one because I am, but two because if you can relate, let’s chat and if you think I’m an idiot perfect, keep walking, I’ve got some fucking story times to get to with the people who get it.

And today, miraculously, my own daughter got it. Our topics went from church to muslim extremists to mental illness. It was a crazy, deep conversation. And I could tell she was assuming mental illness was reserved as a word to describe mass murderers or religious nuts.

Riley wanted to know what makes people mentally ill. so, I started telling her about Vietnam veterans and how because of the horrors they experienced in war, many of them couldn’t come back and function in society. “wear a tie and do an office job?” yeah. Not happening.

And then I brought up how a lot of kids have their own version of Vietnam. They experience trauma when an adult who they should be able to trust hurts them in some way. and worse, they're forced into their own kind of "wear a tie and do an office job" reality. they have to carry around the pain and are expected to act like nothing is wrong and pretend like nothing bad happened. And they don’t know how to deal with it and the after affects only come out later in life. I explained that it doesn’t have to be a mass shooting or a church bombing, there are people all around us dealing with mental illness every day.

I explained that that’s why I went to therapy. There’s stuff that happened to me that created mental illness and I needed dr grace to help me through that. And it’s like you could tell how real it all became to riley and how much she understood as it hit so close to home. Mental illness wasn’t some terrorist’s problem, it was right there in front of her.

And then came a profound moment that we’ll both remember forever. I told her why I cut off my dad. He hurt me. And I wanted to make sure that riley and her brother didn’t get hurt. I have done what I can to change the family story…no bull shit…no empty rituals…I’m going to shoot the kids straight when it’s age appropriate.

And in that moment, all the sudden riley was ready to hear part of the story. So, I made sure that she knew that the choices I’ve made and the work I’ve put in to battle my mental illness are all to make sure that she and blake don’t experience the version of Vietnam that my sister and I did. I couldn’t stop crying as I told her that was why I told her yesterday I was so proud of her you tube channel and who she’s becoming and her confidence in herself, because that’s something…that confidence…that I NEVER had. And I want to do whatever I can to make sure that she and her brother have it better than I did. And Riley leaned over and gave me a big hug.