My Bitter Sweet Selves

Letter to my younger selves,

No need for our covert operation anymore, boys, I’m shining the light on the whole damn story. This is my healing. It’s taken me three years to drudge this up from deep inside my cells and set it down on paper for the both of you. It’s written to you, Dave, as an infant, a child, a teen and a mature man. Dan won’t admit to reading it anyways. I might ramble and skip across decades but you’ll both follow. 

A scene that comes to mind is the first time Dan showed up at Mae’s place eight years ago, wrecked after a night of drinking and smoking dope, clamouring around his workshop all night, talking to no one. Dan had mounted a big case against Mae for suggesting you temper your drinking and pot use in favour of the relationship. Up until then, Mae had only known Dave in all his sweet and genuine glory. That hot July morning, you beat a path to Mae’s sunlit deck. Just as she walked towards you for a kiss, you puffed up your chest, and, towering over her petite form, you spat nails. 

“This relationship is over. I’m done.” 

Recall the look on Mae’s face - because you did register it - the way she drew back, the shock in her eyes, mixed with fear of this unreachable man. 

Her quiet pained voice whispered: “Dave, what’s happened?”, as you turned your back and stomped off. Dan happened, that’s what. Mae’s first time. But not her last. 

Over the next five years with Mae, Dan’s devious, nasty, bitter personality took over every few months, frightening Mae with gaslighting, stonewalling, and dishing out nothing short of emotional abuse. Then after a spell, good-natured and humble Dave would show up, hat in hand, begging forgiveness, and hoping for a soft touch, a kiss and renewed passion. 

And son of a gun Dave, I’ve come to understand how lucky you were to have experienced true love. A woman like Mae – open-minded, educated, curious, capable of love - could guide you to a world of possibility. Otherwise, guys like us are held back by an unfathomable need to control our inner world of fear and shame, which keeps our life small, unexamined, predictable and lost. I wouldn’t be writing this to you had it not been for Mae. Let me take your hand and walk the path of healing with you. 

You were sixteen when Dan was released from your psyche as a fully-formed alter-you. You were a striking lad, strong and buff, with a long dark mullet fashionable at the time, wearing faded jeans, tight around the ass, and plaid lumberjack shirts with hues that highlighted your blue eyes. Girls swooned. 

It was your birthday. Itching to get your driver’s license just like any boy in the rural south, you asked Nora for your birth certificate. She looked at you with an empty gaze, retrieved the paperwork from her bedroom, and handed it to you avoiding your eye, head turned down to her right with a little shrug in her shoulder. You snatched it and headed to town, getting a lift from a buddy. At the licensing office, you stood at the counter and filled out the forms. In the part where it asked for your father’s name, you entered James McGill, and then opened the paper Nora had handed you. But it wasn’t a birth certificate. It was a certificate of adoption. James adopted you as a five-month-old. 

Your thoughts froze as the pen hovered over the form. A deafening silence echoed in your head. Your eyes fixed on the brown carpet at your feet, the dirty worn strands that had loosened over time along a slit. Your body flushed with a heat that made you keel over. Then you squinted, shook your head, and the office returned to normal. Except you were forever altered. Who am I?

The drive back home was a blur. 

“What’s this?”, you shoved the paper in Nora’s face, in the old-fashioned kitchen at the back of the house. She looked over at you slowly and paused. 

“What. Yes, you’re adopted.” 

You shifted your weight and your eyes narrowed, pouring over the paper. 

“Who is my father then?” 

“When I was living in the city. I only met him once.” Nora shrugged and turned to the sink. Seeing her turn away triggered your rage, flooded by a lifetime of unspoken questions and answers.  

“When were you gonna tell me this?” you demanded. 

“I made sure James adopted you...” Her voice trailed off. End of conversation. 

Your sixteen-year-old developing brain could barely grasp the facts, let alone the feelings that were swarming in your gut. It was like the normal signals you navigated life by had become unfamiliar. Your rage had been accumulating since you were an infant. 

And at that moment Dan separated from Dave. 

Dan knew how to take control. The world would fear Dan’s devious, acutely-clever, never-wrong, decisive nature. Dave would stumble and falter, be surprised, adapt. Dan would annihilate. 

It’s no longer a mystery to me how Dan developed out of need. A child needs love and warmth, proper attention and respect. Nora couldn’t serve it up, herself a damaged piece of goods, though she didn’t talk about that. 

I’ve rewritten this scene many times and each time I do, I cry, a grown man. I don’t mind. As long as I cry, I know I’m healing. 

You’re a baby, uttering your first words: “Mamma. Mamma,” your round face beaming, your pudgy arm reaching for your mother. You’re seated on the farmhouse floor, a wooden spoon and a metal truck at your side. Nora, standing at the stove, looks over her shoulder at you, then looks away vacantly, stirring the soup. 

“Mamma”, you say again. You tap the truck with the wooden spoon grasped in your chubby hand. Nora walks over, grabs the spoon without looking at you, and walks back to the kitchen. You pick up the truck, gurgle, crawl a few feet away, and, with your back to your mother, sit alone in the patch of warm morning sunlight streaming through the window onto the farmhouse floor. 

The camera pulls away, and there you sit, for hours, maybe days, in my mind’s eye. This was normal life, day after day. Sure, she tended to your basic needs – clothed you, fed you, gave you shelter – but she did not see you. The seed of Dan formed in the emotionless void that was your home. I can’t stand this scene but I face it. I’m disgusted that you were not cuddled and loved by your mother. So, I soothe you now. I’ve learned how to do this. It’s simple - holding you close to my heart heals me, you, Dave. 

By the age of four you’d developed a brash loudness, your trademark to this day. Loud got Nora’s attention. You were a strong boy, happy on your own. You’d run through the fields or sit in the barn and watch James, the man you thought was your father, tend to the cows, fetching him a tool or a cool drink. The cows were warm creatures. You grew to love the farm and hard work. 

Unfed by a mother’s love, fed rather by expressionless eyes, your inner world of feelings hardened over like a safe. You told yourself stories in bed at night. When the moonlight shone through the curtainless window, you amused yourself with the shadows you created on the wall, your fat fingers making shapes that looked like faces, animals, trees, objects. You talked to yourself then, as I do to this day. 

At age eight, Nora came to you saying James, your father, her husband, was bad. 

“Should we leave?”, she asked. Your answer was correct.

“I don’t know, mother.” 

It was her question that was wrong. Days later, Nora packed up the car with you and your two step-siblings, and moved you all into a small apartment in town, away from James - a man you’d never in your life see again. No explanation. No good-byes. Your young brain fragmented further, while Dan developed bit by bit – a bit angry, a bit fearless. 

In the town setting, Nora became more demanding, leaning on you to look after her like a partner would. A dutiful boy, you did your best. Luckily, you had athletic talent. Dirt poor, the service clubs funded your hockey and baseball equipment needs. Team sports gave you confidence, and a place where you belonged. 

Nora dated and married Wayne, another farmer. Wayne appreciated your hard work and youthful strength, but he kept his distance and drank. By sixteen, you were a capable young man, working on the farm, playing sports and chasing girls. You had a lot going for you, but your downfall was skipping school. You were gifted with intelligence, but you eschewed education. (Yes, I’ve started using big words. I’ve been reading and educating myself. Look it up.) The conversation in the vice-principal’s office still haunts me. 

“Dave, look at these absences. Is anything going on at home?” asked Mr. Dedrick.

“Just workin’ on the farm,” you replied.

“Look at your math marks. And that’s with missing several classes. You have potential to get into engineering, or anything you want with high math scores like this. We can line up a scholarship, and student loans. Think about it. Better than scrapping in the schoolyard and hanging around bars.” 

Damn fool. Hating school confined your mind. Granted, you were excellent with your hands and are to this day. But you missed out on conceptual thinking and curiosity about the world beyond your surroundings. I often wonder whether you’d have sought therapy had you been educated. Without help, Dan flourished untethered. He’d show up at work and spew his profanities to unsuspecting coworkers and bosses, forcing an early retirement on you, and garnering you a reputation for incivility. But you pulled through, Dave. You broke the cycle of poverty you grew up in. You help your neighbours to a fault. You’re a Navy Seal in a crisis. Folks love your buffoonery at social gatherings. You’re a man’s man. You have a healthy sex drive. And you can fix just about anything. Except the relationship with Mae. 

Mae was the first to name Dan, not that previous partners hadn’t noticed him; they just worked hard to keep him at bay. You did a good job concealing Dan from neighbours and friends. But from Mae? Not a chance.  

“Dan has to leave the building”, Mae said smartly, before knowing it was not really your choice. 

“I want to know Dave. Please connect with me,” she would implore six ways to Sunday. Mae could see the gem inside you, and wanted you both to explore each other’s inner lives with words, not just through touch and kisses, although that side of things worked well. You just couldn’t open up. 

And then, if she seemed distracted with her own things, or gave a short answer unwittingly, or called you out on your drinking, Dan would show up, obliterating the foundation of the relationship until no foundation existed. 

“Dan drops a nuclear bomb on us,” she summarized it well. 

Mae wasn’t afraid to talk about anything. She held up a mirror that opened my eyes when she described how our faces changed.  

“Dave’s face is handsome liquid-eyed pure gold gorgeous. Dan’s is like an ageless vulture, mouth downturned, chinless with a hook nose, blank eyes. Not exactly someone a woman wants to kiss or otherwise.” 

Her truthfulness, though painful to hear, spurred my healing journey. You will come to realize that Mae’s perceptions were pretty accurate. She nailed the relationship pattern: you’d get along, life was good, sex was great, and then eventually Mae wouldn’t meet your unspoken needs, and Dan would show up. Key word: unspoken. You can’t be in a healthy relationship without calmly talking about what you need. Dan and talking? Not possible. 

Dan just became more and more ruthless, and in the last rupture, he went for the jugular. 

“There’s nothing to talk about. I don’t love you. I’m not attracted to you. There is no us.”

Upon hearing these words, Mae’s face is forever imprinted on my mind. Her eyes drained, watching Dan with dread, and still darted about seeking Dave and their ways only known to them, their sweet intimate knowing. Then, along with shock and pain, there was a look, and at first, I thought it was pity, that Mae pitied us. But now I know – it wasn’t pity. It was absolute but also sad. It was unconditional love; how would I know it? That was the sad part.  

If there’s anything I’d do over again, it would be to learn how to talk, really talk, about my inner life. This letter to you, my younger self/selves, is a step in that direction. Here’s the rub – Nora is blameless. Fault doesn’t figure in. During the past three years of my healing journey, I’ve come to understand Mother, and I’ve learned to soothe my own pain. Dan is still there but it’s almost like we’ve got an agreement. I’ve come to know what causes the switch and can talk to Dan before he takes over. It’s hard to explain and a work in progress.

As for Mae, her parting words were both hopeful and tragic, mostly tragic: “We are rest-of-our-lives people. You will end up knowing it till the end of your days.” 

Yup.