Hey, welcome back to what I learned in therapy with me. Jamie Lang. You know, I thought. A lot about what I was going to say. And this first full episode. Um, can I thought about it for a long time? What story do I want to begin with? And it's tricky because, you know, I believe in order for my clients to feel more comfortable with me and. Trust me, it's really important that I share parts of my story that are appropriate. Parts of my story that are therapeutically appropriate.
And that's tough to know how to do just in general. And what I'm realizing with this podcast is I get to share whatever the hell I want. And that's really liberating. So today I'm going to start. With a story. About my dad. A story about my dad is a story about me. And the story of my family. My family was centered around my dad and his failing health. Most of my life. Many stories on this podcast, we'll recall him and his tremendous influence on the health of our family system.
And because this is a podcast about stories and the therapeutic possibilities and every story we hear. And every story we tell. I thought I might as well start. With my dad. And just a quick reminder that on this podcast, or even in therapy, we don't tell our stories in order to blame anyone. Rather, we tell our stories to make more sense of our lived experiences. But before we jump in, be sure to like, and share this podcast with everyone, you know, so we can continue to help heal the world.
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I'm going to tell you stories about my life. And today's specifically, like I mentioned about my dad. I don't talk about my dad very often. After he died, my mom and my brother. And I. I think we lost language to invoke him. Or we were too scared to find the language, to invoke him. And I think it's because we had been anticipating his death for at least two decades. And in my mom's case, much longer. And words are so limited to contain a life full of love and loss.
I think for a long time, we struggled even to look each other in the eye. Because we were so reminded of his absence. In this stage of my healing though, I am bringing my dad out of the shadows of my family. Certainly more stories of my family will be told here, but today. We'll just start with a little snippet of my time with him. My dad died when I was 17 and he was only 51. I just recently turned 46 years old. That's five years. Older than I am now, when my father passed it blows my mind.
He died on a Monday. And in fact, I found him. He was in one of the spare bedrooms of my family's home. So heads up, I'm going to talk about death on this pod. So be sure to attend to your tender heart. My dad had been sick most of his life. And in fact, he was born into a sick family. His father, an angry man who struggled with alcohol and a mother who explicitly told him in a birthday card once quote. Dear Michael. You were a mistake. End quote. His entrance into this world was not welcoming.
And throughout his life, he wore this reception all over his body. My dad was morbidly obese. Most of my life. His weight fluctuated at times, going on crash diets. Oh, God. I remember. Uh, weird concoction. He once made of. Stewed tomatoes and cabbage. And he ate it. Every night in order to drop weight. But mostly his weight rebounded. He was also a smoker. I am fairly certain that my dad began smoking early in his youth. And he smoked until just a few years before he died. His weight.
And his eating disorder imprinted on my body, tremendously dangerous beliefs of which today. I still feel the effects. And I promise we'll certainly dive in there one day. But not yet. Sometimes when I think about my dad, he feels like an enigma clouded by unfamiliarity. Just beyond my grasp. Yet in moments of profound tenderness. When the weight of existence falls upon me. I closed my eyes. And I feel him sitting right next to me. Empathizing deeply with my existential wounds.
I sent his silent companionship and long for the sweet. Tenor of his laughter. And my childhood, sometimes I felt like I really knew his suffering. But I struggled to know his joy outside of how much he loved my mom. And how much he loved my brother. And I know he loved me too. But the dynamics of our family and the dynamics of his family trauma made it hard for me. To see sometimes how he looked at me. In my youth, there was very little room for more than my dad's illnesses.
My mom's frustration in him. And my brother's success as an athlete. I often didn't know where to belong. And listen, I jumped in on the athletics and thankfully I had some talent. But I certainly wasn't my brother. And I'm incredibly grateful for the wisdom that distance and grief provides. What I've learned is that we can only love the way we know how to love. My dad loved me of this. I am sure. And he loved me the best way he knew how. I no longer blame him.
And I am grateful to have learned from him how to be a more present parent. And a more equitable human to myself. And I'm really glad to be on this side of my story. I mean, it's kind of baffling, how little we know about our parents. They had a whole lives before we came into their worlds. They were different humans. Than we may ever know. And there was a day that I found something. They didn't know about my dad. When I saw something in him, so unexpected and so terrifyingly sad.
And most of all the moment illuminated his heartache. My dad was the youngest of an ungodly amount of children, like eight or nine. And I'm sorry if you're a child of eight or nine children. Much respect you have survived. In my little world, I just can't even imagine it. And to be honest, I'm not even entirely sure how many siblings he had, because like I said, he lives in the shadows of our family and we rarely speak about it. And he was told in a birthday card. You were a mistake. End quote.
This foundation for his perpetual insecurity and his world was set. In childhood. Without his consent. And it makes sense. How can I be enough if my own mother believes that I am wrong? How can I be enough? If my own mother believes I'm a mistake. And what's ironic is if he had lived. This would be something over which we might've bonded. And like I mentioned, I'll save that for another day. That's another story. But I believe my dad grew up with a lonely heart.
Which in part helped create his humor and his charisma. I mean, this guy could light up a room. Because the pendulum has to swing in order for us to survive. He had been deeply wounded in his life. And to cover that up, he became a gregarious. Uh, hilarious and a very, very witty man. To know him was to love all the things about him. And to know him was to know his passion for my brother. And my brothers athletics. To know him was to know his passion for community and sports.
He drug us to every practice my brother ever had. To parent meetings. He was the president of the booster club. And. As yours and my healing have evolved. I realized. I think he needed to live through my brother because his own life was full of so much turmoil. And so much suffering. His neglect of his daughter, me. And the pressure on his son, my brother to perform have left incredible chasms in our family. I used to resent him and my brother for that. But I have learned.
My brother did not choose that pedestal. In fact, I believe that pedestal has harmed him a great deal. Just after high school, my father was drafted into the Vietnam war. He reported that he didn't want to go, but he had no choice. And he entered the army and assumed the role of a tank driver or something close to that. And he left my mom behind newly engaged and promised to come back more whole. And more ready than ever to create the life of their dreams. He wrote her long letters.
I have seen the envelopes. They're stuffed. They're packed with pages of his lived experiences in Vietnam. He was always reassuring her or I'd like to think. That he was safe or at least. That he had hoped that he would be safe. That's what she told me was in the letters. But the. Real details of his time. In Vietnam or scarce for me. I've asked my mom, if I could read the letters. He wrote to her and she has refused me each time. And while this hurts and.
Over the years has inspired a tremendous amount of emotion in me. I truly respect that those words are private and intimate and written only for her eyes. My mom and dad were and our flawed people. But they loved each other. So very deeply. And I respect that so much. And I also respect that she doesn't want to share those words with me. I do admit though. That I long to see his handwriting. And hold on to those papers.
He carried them in the jungles of Vietnam, holding on to any hope that somehow he would survive. I want to hold those papers as if I was holding his hands in mine. My father and I existed in a unique realm. Neither intimately close nor distantly addressed. Like opposing magnets sort of. When our connection. I was there. It was undeniable drawing us together. And then when it wasn't. We were polarized. It was often very confusing. Um, it's the tension words in concept failed us all.
Unable to encapsulate the complex dynamics between us. As I sift through the fragments of my childhood memories, I am able to weave them now into a tapestry of love. Reconciling the contradictions and complexities of our relationship. And I've placed this very particular memory inside my heart. I've wrapped my loving arms around him. And what he went through. To the extent that I can. Late into the night more nights than not. I woke to find him in our living room.
Enveloped by the exploratory curiosity, only the nighttime invites. He would watch documentary films about war. I would walk the hallways on the hardwood floors quietly until my feet felt the carpet transitioning into what had become his nighttime movie space. I watched him watch war. And I can see it now. His silhouette. Illuminated by bombs crashing on the television. He was transfixed. Almost hypnotized. My presence never impacted his relationship with the reenactment of his trauma.
I believe the reciprocity was way too powerful. And this would prove true until the day he died. And I feel it deeply in my bones. That he died. The day, the United States military. Drafted him into a winless war. Uh, when I get down to it. And, and what I've learned in therapies. That I think my dad was already in a windlass war with himself. His own mother had told him he was a mistake. I imagined him as a nine year old boy with a broken heart.
And then at 18, when he left to Vietnam, he returned. A man. With a shameful heart. Not even in my worst nightmares. Can I imagine what he saw in Vietnam? And the closest I ever got. Was one day. When he reflected it to me. Deep in his ice blue eyes. I'm not sure we ever saw each other the same after that. It was a summer day and my dad was home. He rarely had consistent employment in my childhood. And tell us about the last two years of his life.
I believe another side effect of boys going off to war to become killing machines. As it, they don't know how to live in a world where you seemingly just get up and go to work. You have some dinner. You watch a show. And then you go to sleep. Trauma disallows that ease in life. And I believe his trauma haunted him. From the day he left the United States until the day. He left this life. He never recovered from Vietnam. Our family home.
The one, my mom still lives in is a large farm style house with an open kitchen and dining area. Lots of big windows and skylights. And then this memory I'm sitting with him at the round custom made kitchen table. They bought for themselves immediately after their marriage, which occurred immediately. After he returned from war. The sunlight, sprinkles, summer freedom through the windows and we are eating fruit.
I want to say it's fresh strawberries from the backyard or perhaps the blackberries from the local market, but I can't be sure. And. It might be true that I want to sweeten the memory. Soften the bitterness. Round out the edges of his words that day. It was 1991 and the Gulf war was at its peak. From my vantage point and sitting at the table, I observed the relentless churn of the news cycle, glorifying the veterans and celebrating their endeavors. In the theater of war.
Yeah, my father's reaction was not admiration, but more like this stain. He dismissed the celebratory rhetoric surrounding these soldiers. And it was so confusing to me. Him as a soldier. His perspective, puzzled me. He was a man seemingly consumed by the imagery of warfare. Fixated on the spectacle of combat. Yet unwilling to offer his gratitude. I grappled with his descent. Struggling to understand. His perception. With my own ingrained beliefs. We're all soldiers heroes. But to my father.
They were not heroes to be revered, but folks entangled in the machinery of conflict. I confronted the stark difference between our two perspectives. Grappling with the realization that perhaps his truth, however, unsettling. Held its own undeniable validity. And I wanted to know, I wanted to understand him more. And in my useful ignorance. I asked. Dad. Did you ever have to count anyone in Vietnam? The universal language of. Parental disapproval is. Familiar to us all.
A single glance that speaks volumes conveying the unspoken message you are in trouble. Uh, warning that serves as a gentle reminder of boundaries being crossed. And lessons to be learned. My dad had a very distinct way of communicating that trouble was a foot. He would tuck his chin. His glasses with side down his nose. He would stare at me over those glasses, one eyebrow raised and say, there's something we need to talk about. And then I knew.
Such gestures latent with meaning, have a remarkable ability to cut through the noise of everyday life. And after I muttered the words, did you ever kill anyone in Vietnam? It was as if a cold cloud moved over my summertime sun. And drops of a gray. Filled the kitchen air. He looked up from his fruit over the rim of his glasses, sliding down his nose and vitriol sprung from his eyes. I had never seen that tone in this space. His rosy cheeks turned pale. And his breath was short.
The only other time I saw his eyes, like that was the day I found him dead. Frozen open. Like glass. In my mind's eye, the moment lasts forever. But in reality, I'm sure it was just a few seconds. But regardless of time, I had struck his wound. I had crossed a boundary. And I didn't know. Don't you ever ask me that again? Ever. He spit the words from his lips. Dripping with resentment and fear. He repeated. Don't you ever ask me that again? And then he rose from the table.
And stomped toward the television. And watch the coverage. Of Gulf war veterans. Who were regarded as the heroes. He could not regard himself as. I will never. Forget that moment. It was as if I was watching him. Watch his own loneliness. And of course I never asked again. Later that summer though. He surprised us all out of the blue and believe me, he never spoke about the war. I mean, clearly you can. See from his response. I mean, the question was a bit abrupt.
But he certainly never showed us what he went through. So just a few weeks later, he presented a slideshow of all the pictures he had taken in Vietnam. You know, those old school, a little projector, things that kind of spin around and they show the photo. On the screen on the wall. I don't know what the hell they're called, but he found one. And he put on a show. And it was disorienting. Not just a few weeks prior, he had said, don't you ever ask me that again?
And I took that to mean that we will never speak of Vietnam. And yet there he was on the screen. Uh, young man. Still a boy. In the middle of a jungle. Wearing half of his uniform. No shirt. Sweating. Glistening even. And he's with others. Who looked just like him, a child. And they're smoking. And they're laughing. And they're sitting on their tanks, drinking beer from cans. I stared at my father on the wall. And it was as if I was watching him looking back at me. Toward the camera.
Reconciling himself in real time. One of my favorite philosophers is the 13th century poet named Rumi. He was an Islamic scholar, a Sufi mystic. Like I mentioned a Persian poet. He is one of the most celebrated spiritual masters of all time. Rumi's work has transcendent cultural and linguistic boundaries. Gaining popularity and admiration around the world. In college. I was a double major in philosophy and English writing and Rumi is the amalgam of everything I've ever wanted in a man.
He's a writer, a poet. To me. Session a philosopher. I found Rumi many years ago, as I began to heal. And I'd like to share with you an excerpt from one of my favorite poems, he wrote. It's called the great wagon. And it goes like this. Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground. Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right. Doing. There is a field. And I will meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about ideas. Language, even the phrase, each other doesn't make any sense. The breeze at Dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want. Don't go back to sleep. People are going back and forth across the doorsill. Where the two worlds touch. But the door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep. Indeed.
The poem holds profound wisdom that transcends the boundaries of conventional morality. Diving into the realm of human experience where notions of right and wrong lose relevance. This poem creates a sanctuary. A sacred space for people like my father who are thrust into conflicts, they did not choose. For my father, the wars he faced were not limited to the battlefields of Vietnam. They extended into the very fabric of his existence.
He grappled, not only with the external cultural constructions of being a man. But also with the inner demons haunted by his mother's rejection. And the relentless pursuit. Of an elusive sense of validation. In this landscape. Rumi offers a reminder that beyond the confines of judgment and condemnation, Lays a field where acceptance and compassion. Can reign Supreme. This is a space. My dad did not know how to access. My dad killed people in Vietnam. And he didn't know how to love himself after.
Because what we learn. Is killing is wrong. And what we learn is being a soldier. Is being good. And I don't think my dad knew how to reconcile this tension. My paternal grandmother. Gave birth to a son and did not love him. Well, How does he reconcile this tension? And when he came home from war, he was spit upon and called a baby killer. Yet he had done his job as a soldier for our country. How does one resolve all of this tension in one body?
What I've learned in therapy is that ideas of right and wrong. Our ideas. Which is clearly why I'm. So drawn toward this poem. I believe in a fundamental truth of our human experience. That our perceptions of right and wrong are inherently subjective, shaped. By our individual backgrounds, beliefs, and experiences. This divergence of perspective. As evident, not only in historical conflicts, like the Vietnam war, the Gulf war. All world wars.
But also in contemporary issues, just look at what's happening to the rights of those who need them most. Each of these conflicts arose from deeply entrenched ideologies. With opposing individuals and groups believing in the righteousness of their cause. Yeah, as history has shown us. The pursuit of these conflicting ideals has led to devastating consequences. Leaving a trail of destruction and casualties along the way.
This happens, not only in larger systems, but obviously, and most clearly in individuals. I wish my dad had not been given an idea of his wrongness. I wish his mom had loved him beyond her ideas of right. And wrongness. I wish she had been loved beyond ideas of right and wrong. And I wish that I had had the wisdom. As his ice blue eyes pierced my heart. And he told me. Never asked me that again. What I wish I could have said was dad. You didn't do wrong.
I wish I'd had the wisdom to say, dad, You did what you were supposed to do. You are not bad. I wished I had had the wisdom to say, dad, look at me. I am your daughter. I have the same blue eyes as you. I am here. You are good. But he had already believed in the ideas that were given to him without his consent. And I had little power over the power of wrongness. So. What I learned in therapy. Is that beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right. Doing there is room to love and understand each other.
With tremendous and generous freedom. There is room to extend grace and compassion to ourselves and others. As we never navigate the complexities of our human existence. With courage and resilience. This doesn't exclude the harm that is or was done. But beyond ideas of right. And beyond ideas of wrong. There is a human inside. It has been deeply wounded. No matter how wrong or right. You think you are. And so when you find yourself certain that you are right and certain that someone is wrong.
Remember. That these are ideas. And there is space. So much space to talk and understand and dissect and perhaps dilute our cultural rules about what is right. And what is wrong? Because they are only ideas. There are more than 7 billion people in the world. And each one has their ideas of right and wrong. So perhaps we can stop grasping to our own ideas and listen. Because there is always enough time. To listen. And so I guess what I'd like to end with is this.
Because I believe my dad is listening. That he has found enough time. To listen to what he's been waiting for for far too long to hear. Dear dad. Beyond ideas of rightness and wrongness, there is an amazing field. Full of the most beautiful wild flowers. Swaying in the breeze of our summertime sunlight. And I will meet you there. Thank you for joining me. No go spray, paint the world with your love.