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I deserve to have the future I want—the future I see with him. Now I just need to be strong enough to get it.
Miles
“Hello?” I call as I walk into my parents’ house and slip my shoes off.
I’m exhausted physically and mentally. I haven’t been sleeping well—not that it’s much of a surprise—and I can’t stop thinking. Thinking through my relationship with Amelia, my anxiety, my life in general.
“Hey, Miles,” Dad says, walking into the living room. “What’s going on?”
“I wanted to talk to you about something.” I purposely chose this evening because I knew my mother would be at my sisters’ gymnastic practice. She might be the only parent who sticks around for the practice still at their age, but that’s Ma.
“Of course. Come sit.” I follow him to the living room and sit down, rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Is this about what’s happening with you and Amelia? Your mom went to see her the other night.”
“Yeah, I know. And sort of.” I let out a rough sigh. “Dad, do you have anxiety?”
His eyes widen, then he smiles softly. “Yes. I do.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, frustration swelling inside me. “Especially knowing I have it too. Didn’t you think maybe you could help me?”
He nods. “Your mother suggested on more than one occasion that I tell you, but she always left it up to me. I wasn’t trying to hurt you by not sharing it with you—the opposite, actually. My mother suffered from severe anxiety, and she never got any help for it. I know you probably saw bits and pieces of that when she’d come to visit when you were young, but that was the tiny tip of a massive iceberg. All my life, when something difficult happened—even if it happened to me—I’d have to hold my mother’s hand and calm her down through it. It made it impossible for me to go to her with my problems, because I’d end up comforting her. It wasn’t fair to me that I often had to be the parent to my own mother. It was even worse when I started struggling with anxiety, too. It was your mom who ended up supporting me through it and encouraging me to get help. I found a good therapist, medication that worked well, and I got it under control. The reason I never told you or your sisters is because I never wanted to burden you the way my mother did me. If that wasn’t the right choice, I’m sorry.” He chuckles. “As you parent, you’ll learn you often try not to repeat the same mistakes your parents made. Instead, you screw your kids up in your own unique way.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t think you and mom screwed me up. I’m struggling right now, though. My anxiety is out of check, and I don’t know how to handle it. I made an appointment with a local therapist, but it’s going to be a couple of weeks before I get in. I’m nervous about that, too. How do you handle it? Because it feels like an impossibly high mountain that I couldn’t climb if I wanted to.”
“My anxiety peaked around the same time in my life. Your mom and I had just gotten married, and I was extremely overwhelmed by my first job. It wasn’t the right fit for me. Then your mom found out she was pregnant with you. We’d talked about trying, but hadn’t officially decided yet. I felt like I was on a train that was running off the rails and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was lashing out at your mom, and you know her level of tolerance for bullshit.”
“None at all.”
“Precisely.” He smiles and leans back in his chair. “She sat me down and told me in no uncertain terms that if I wanted our marriage to remain intact, I needed to do the work on myself. It took a couple of tries to find the right therapist for me, but once I did, it made all the difference. If I’ve learned anything, the mountain isn’t nearly as steep or high as you think it is, and a good therapist will give you a better perspective and the tools to climb said mountain, but you have to want to. So it sounds like you’re already moving in the right direction.”
“I hope so. I’m tired of feeling like I’m coming apart at the seams.” I drop my head into my hands. This week has been a test of my strength and my mental and emotional states—neither of which are faring well.
Dad sits down next to me and wraps his arm around my back. “You don’t have to face it alone. When you feel like you’re coming apart at the seams, we’ll all be here to sew you back up.”
“I think Addie and Jameson might pull some stuffing out first.”
He laughs at that. “Their love language is sarcasm and being little hellions. They’re miniature versions of your mother, but with more sass. It’s terrifying being the only man in the house these days. Then others they curl up next to me and call me ‘Daddy’ still. Being a girl dad is an adventure.”
“I want to be strong enough for her,” I whisper. Because the thought of failing my little girl kills me and she’s not even here yet.
“You will be,” he reassures me. “You have a big, loving heart, but you don’t take people’s shit. Kind of like your mother.”
“And you. I understand why you didn’t want to tell us about your anxiety. I appreciate I could always talk to you. I never questioned that for a second.” Tears fill my eyes because I’m an utter fucking mess this week.
“It’s going to be okay. I know everyone always says that, but it’s usually the truth. One way or another, things usually work out okay, even if there’s some pain along the way. I’m proud of you for recognizing the ways you need to heal—and for the man you are right now.Youare going to be okay. We’ll all help make sure of that.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you too. Now, what do you say we order some chicken wings and meat lover’s pizza and see how much it annoys your mother?”
I laugh at that. She’d always give us shit when we were left to our own devices because we can both cook but chose not to. And there was “never a vegetable in sight” as she’d say.
“Sounds good.”
The last six months have tested my foundation and everything I thought I knew about myself. Maybe it was ego, but I thought I was somehow more evolved than my friends had been as they got into serious relationships. I’m realizing now how much work I have to do to be the best version of myself, the best father for my daughter, and the best partner for Amelia. Assuming she still wants that. I’m trying to accept that I can’t know the answer to everything, but after our appointment on Friday, we will figure out the answer to that question because what we’re doing right now isn’t healthy for either of us or our relationship. If we’re going to be in one, we’ve got to work together, not slip apart. I don’t need perfection. Give me all the messy moments and hard things as long as I have her, too. She’s what I need. Her and our daughter—our little family—and I’m not giving up on them for a second.
Amelia
Screw you, Netflix.
