As the son of an abusive, alcoholic father, Tim Lineaweaver had to learn how to pick up the pieces of his life and become a better man and dad for his children.
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I have a photo of my father right before he died in Ireland on his second honeymoon back in 1979. In it, he is looking toward the top of a hill, partially shrouded in thick dark fog. He is reed thin, shriven from a lifetime of chronic alcoholism and though only 56 years old, he looks elderly. My brother, sick of the shame and degradation of my father’s alcoholism, said he looked like a tortoise plucked from its shell. A few days later he would die in an emergency room in Ireland of massive blood poisoning and respiratory failure, his limbs turning black before his eyes. I was 23 years old, though very much still a boy.
My father was verbally and physically abusive. One morning, when I was fourteen, he was hung-over and foul tempered, eating breakfast in bed where my mother served him daily. On this particular morning I was overwhelmed with a teenager’s self-consciousness about the disrepair of my beloved P-Coat. As I prevailed on my mother to assist me in getting the dog hair off it, he hissed, “Out … now!” I ignored him. “GET THE FUCK OUT NOW,” he bellowed. “No,” I countered, but no sooner had the word escaped my mouth he set upon me with a heavy clopping slap to the face. As I turned to flee he started kicking me repeatedly in the ass, thump, thump, thump out of the bedroom, thump, thump, thump across the living room and thump right into the closet by the front door where I landed in a shower of falling coats and hangers. I picked myself up and let myself out the front door for school. He went back to finish his breakfast.
As damaging to the psyche as physical abuse can be, I believe it is preferable to a constant onslaught of soul-sucking words. My father was a writer surrounded by books of all sizes, shapes and subjects. His life a mess, his precisely organized study belied a church-like reverence for words. He was the type of man who found your vulnerability quickly then pressed for the verbal kill. He took cursing to a whole new level. “Goddamn your eyes” is a phrase that still rattles around in my brain all these years later. As a boy I could feel the hatefulness of the statement beaming into this most vulnerable part of me, filling me with self-esteem-busting bile. My brother and I learned that expressing need was metaphorically akin to turning our bellies up for him to tear at, he sneering back at us with literary taunts such as, “Poor Camille,” or, “What does Little Lord Fauntleroy want?” And so, we learned to clam up and endure, a survival strategy in our house but a losing formula outside it.
His self-destructiveness traumatized all of us. It was spiteful, pointed and often out of context, therefore more effectively stunning. One late afternoon, he came home from work and quietly approached my mother who was doing dishes in the sink. He encircled her from behind and wordlessly kissed her on the cheek, then released her and headed into their bedroom and turned into the master bathroom where he punched out the heavy glass shower stall slicing his hands to an extent requiring over a hundred stitches.
He was also capable of sustained rages pithily described as “tsunamis” by one of his erudite friends. One day I came home to find him drunk amidst a huge pile of household rubble he’d smashed: furniture, paintings and electronics. He was sitting on the floor of the living room in his light-blue pajamas, flinging white-gold-leafed wedding plates against the wall, one by one.
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Despite numerous resolute oaths to the contrary, I became much like my father. I was a lock-jawed Gordian knot of sadness, anxiety and rage with staggering bouts of depression. At a very tender age of twelve I started to self-medicate, first with nicotine and then alcohol and weed. Before long, I graduated to other drugs and eventually landed in a narcotic, remorseful heap in detox at twenty-eight; broke, soon-to-be-divorced and now the father of a one-year-old girl.
Despite numerous resolute oaths to the contrary, I became much like my father. I was a lock-jawed Gordian knot of sadness, anxiety and rage with staggering bouts of depression.
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Fatherhood: what could I offer? I was 27 when my daughter was born. Maybe the best word to describe me then was brokenhearted; yes, by lost love, addiction and regret but more than anything or anyone, by my father, in the looming and enduring way that fathers hurt sons. His shadow darkened most of my days and still does from time to time. As I began to imagine myself as a dad, I pledged three things: I will be sober always, I will love my children unconditionally, and I will never lay a hand on them. So far, for the most part I’ve kept my promises. As I write this I can hear the naysayers, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” Bullshit I say! If you can’t instill good values in your children through love, reason, discipline and modeling then don’t become a parent. I realize my father’s back-handed love is what informed my promises to my own children and for that anyway I can be grateful.
Though I am 58 years old and have forgotten much of my childhood, the living nightmares of my father linger in the mind’s eye and in my lifelong battle with depression, anxiety and the occasional nightmare. Despite a lot of effort on my part, there are scars and broken pieces of me that I have been able to make smaller but if I am to be perfectly honest, will never fully heal. My biggest wish as a father is that the baggage my children would have to carry from my parenting will be nothing more that a pleasant heft.
And so, when my daughter was born things began to change. The birth itself and the other births I’ve witnessed revealed life as a miracle and was the start of some long-needed good news.
My daughter Jennifer: an unsinkable spirit then and now as well as a capable parent and businessperson who has given me four wonderful grandchildren. Dylan: my oldest son, best described as an imp when he was young has grown into a young man determined to change things for the better as he works doggedly on the political campaigns he believes in. We share an abiding love of music together. I turn him on to the old, he hips me to the new. My youngest son Nicky: an athletic bright and miraculously even-tempered old soul who is maybe the only person on earth who can calm down the old man when he’s worked up. I don’t like to be touched by most people, but Nicky can just lay his hand on my head and I feel the tension drain away.
Everybody in my family knows that the glue to the whole mess is my wife. She is the hub, the conscience and the creative force. I cannot repay what my family has given me; I stand by them gently, firmly but with an axe.
When I was a boy, I recall riding in the family car at night, my body rigid in the seat, the car hazy from my father’s cigarettes. I remember peering into the houses scrolling by, their interiors softly lit a calming yellow against the night. I imagined each one to be happier than ours. I certainly never thought I would grow up to be blessed with my home and these people. They’ve made it all worthwhile.
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Photo: Andrew.Beebe/flickr
Fran: I loved working with you too! Underpaid and overworked in the Detox like everyone else but boy, I learned a lot. Thanks for reading the piece!!!
Tim. I remember working side by side with you at Gosnold and beyond. I was bowled over by you r ability to be vulnerable. I always loved working with you and am proud to say you rock!!!
Tim: Sounds like there similarities in our lives and that you too have been able to beat back the demons to have a good family. You should be proud of what you have accomplished! Enjoy!
Tim.. it is interesting.. I am so proud of my son and the wonderful woman that married me.. you would like the wife.. smart as a whip!… very honest, forthright .. and lot’s of common sense.. smart! – an interesting thread I come from.. I love the mystery, I love the Genetics/ HISTORY……. and enjoy most all of the people!.. I am a work in progress.. and the demons are at bay.. a day at a time! – Thank you for the BLOG and your own HONESTY! — no veneer with me… Best! — Merry Christmas!
Tim: A Merry Xmas back at you and your family! I know that the love of a good woman has done more to heal me than anything else! We are all a work in progress and all we can do is try to evolve a bit each day. Sounds like you are on your way!
Piv: Thanks for your comments! I think this has been a group effort–I was able to get into recovery to stop hurting myself in the way addicts do and that and therapy opened me up to life’s better possibilities. Since then Tessa, Jennifer, Nicky and Dylan have given me a place to direct myself and my love, and they have loved me back. I feel blessed and wouldn’t trade this part of my life with anyone’s!
So beautiful – while heart-wrenching – to read. I hope you are profoundly proud of the life you’ve made. It’s your own grit and integrity and resilience and desire above all things to love – and your seeking those qualities in a partner — that created the life you have now. Thank you for sharing!
Alan: I just read your piece and see a lot of similarities, as there often are in alcoholic homes. My Dad and yours fit the phrase, “house devil, street angel.” I still have people come up to me to sing my father’s praises, over thirty years after his death. I try not to begrudge people their perceptions but I know that there is the public persona and the person we see at home. Two very different animals! I have had my share of struggles over the years but feel blessed with the family I have. Sounds like the same for… Read more »
David: Thanks for reading the piece and for your comments. If we can all talk openly about our pasts and how they shaped us for better, and for worse, then perhaps we can improve things bit by bit!
I am now just shy of 55 years old and I am seeking what my father DID in fact give to me.. I am at a loss to-yet find tangible and exact.. “dad gave me this!”.. without some reservations later… did he???.. I do know that my father was a product of his own demons and from his own childhood, but that never should give anyone a pass to hurt another person, as an excuse.. We have a saying in the family among some of the siblings (there are 6 of us), that dad was damaged goods from from his… Read more »
How sad; what a blessing you have been surrounded by the love of your family.
A beautiful essay. We each must find our peace as best we can with an openness to accept responsibility and with our hearts and mind fixated on learning from lessons lived and received. Your example, I have little doubt, has profoundly changed many lives.
Alan: I agree with you! Important to share and to try to evolve beyond what our fathers gave us. I will comment more substantially after I read your piece.
Thanks for sharing your story Tim. I can relate (https://goodmenproject.com/families/my-dad-was-an-asshole/)
Call it “breaking the cycle” or whatever you like but I’ve found so much strength in achieving the goal of being a “Better Man” than my father was. I think that for men like us it’s important to share these stories and celebrate the success.