I am not my father

I’ve been reading this incredible theological memoir by Roberta Bondi called Memories of God (which I highly recommend). 

I’ve been struggling with bouts of insomnia for the last five years or so. They come, stay for a week or two, and then leave. As soon as my head hits the pillow, overwhelm and dread sweep in. Molehills turn to mountains and worries creep out of the shadows.

(You might know how this goes.)

Anyhow, I read this line from Bondi’s book the other day:

“I remember my own divorce when Anna Grace and Benjamin, my two children, were tiny. Alone, in that first week, twice I had walked through the house, crazed with loss and fear, and heard myself say, ‘How will I ever support my three children?’ Each time I had caught myself. I had two children and a good job. It was Mama, twenty-five years ago, who had been left with three of us, no education, and no job. I was not my mother.”

Those five words: “I was not my mother.”

Except, in my case, it’s: “I am not my father.” 

My father lost his business when I was three years old and never worked again.

My father lost my mom to cancer when I was sixteen and it sunk him deeper into grief, depression, and despair.

My father died a hoarder, penniless and alone. 

This is what lies at the root of what keeps me up at night: I don’t want to live (and die) like my father. 

And sometimes, who I am gets blurred with who he was and I fail to see my own distinction from his. 

But Roberta brought it to light: I am not my father.
And maybe you need to hear it too.

I know the rug can be pulled at any moment. But now, where I stand in my life, the chasm is wide between his life and mine. 

I am not my father. 

And since realizing this, I’ve slept so much better.