My father didn’t believe in me, or at least in my having viable capabilities. Nor did he feel much responsibility for his children. He certainly wasn’t the only male from my generation like this. Our Dads were absent because their only expectation was to work. Moms did most or all of the child-rearing.  Back then, many fathers had little to do with their children. Sure, they were called in to discipline us when we got out of hand, or maybe a token showing at a school or sports event. But in our case anyway, little beyond that. Eventually my mother divorced him and he sold the house out from underneath us and shared not a plugged-nickel with anyone else in the family. My brother and I, still in our teens were suddenly thrust into the anxiety provoking, ongoing hassle of trying to find housing on Cape Cod.

 My father was overwhelmed by his own demons. Alcoholic, pill-addicted and full of rage. This and a bloody, self-destructive bent that left us staggering. I still carry these decades old images: His white-gauzed bandaged hands under which a hundred blue-black stitches pulled his skin tight after he punched out his glass shower stall, the yellow chalk outline where his body fell after shooting himself in a suicide gesture and as his life neared a premature ending, his shriven, emaciated body. Some things you can’t shake.

 My existence seemed to provoke something in him and we often fell into physical and verbal violence. Or, he just sneeringly belittled me. “Freddy Fuck Up” being his pet name. Before long, I lost the ability to believe in myself. I was overwhelmed by my depression and anxiety, shame, guilt and rage. Even while vowing to never be like the old man, I started to self-medicate. It was the quickest and only method that was dependably effective in ameliorating my negative emotions. And so, I repeated it and developed my own addictions. I was father-starved.

 Most simply put, I just wanted someone to believe in me. Being father-starved led me to behaviors and relationships that were lopsided. It seemed most important to please others, no matter the cost. I avoided confrontation, I’d had enough of that with the old man. Being father- starved led me to a torrid addiction to cocaine and helping my “best friend” to deal it around town. When the law came after the upper levels of the organization my buddy needed to skip town and I lent him three thousand dollars despite being almost broke, cocaine having denuded me of a mid-sized fortune. He was so appreciative and I basked in the warm glow of hiseffusive praise and his vow to repay me. I’d made him happy and doing so made me happy, temporarily. I didn’t know that I was kissing the friendship and the three-grand goodbye. The ending of yet another sick relationship, leaving me resentful and bereft.  

 I didn’t feel worthy on my own, so I tried to please others. I thought in doing so, I’d maintain my relationships and avoid abandonment. I tried  to seek out others who believed in me, because if someone believed in me,  then I’d be happy. Then I’d grow and achieve like a normal person.  If only someone would believe in me, my desperate, unfulfilled, yearning refrain.

 At twenty-eight I finally swore off the booze and drugs but by then my life was a mess. Broke, in debt to the IRS and in the throes of a nasty divorce, I was reeling. I got treatment and therapy and somehow managed to stay clean. My therapist, the most empathetic and impactful person in my life, recognized the potential in me even when I couldn’t see it in myself. The biggest thing I took from our time together: Forget about wanting others to believe in you. Don’t worry what other people think about you and start to believe in yourself. Know that with commitment, daily discipline and effort you can achieve. Don’t give up. Never give up!

 Having applied this approach daily, I have come to believe in myself at last.