CHICAGO TYPEWRITER 1/6/2022
The many LIVES (and DEATHS) of 21st Century Man - How I learned to ''relate'' to my past self
August, 1991, Tokyo, Japan - I’m awakened by my Father’s voice. I’ve been in Japan for weeks but I’ve still not yet adjusted to the psychological and sensory rhythms of life on the other side of the planet. My Father and I are residing at the Tokyo Imperial Hotel - it is a luxurious accommodation - paid for by my Father’s employer and the Japanese government that is hosting the former. My Father never betrays fear or nervousness in his affect, tone or annunciation. But he does let slip severity - an ever so subtle emphasis upon each word that emerges when he finds himself in circumstances where he is aware that he is at mercy of variables entirely out of his control. I am alarmed by fact that I discern (as only I am capable) that he he is gravely worried. Whoever he is speaking to on the phone, and whatever the party on other end of the receiver is relaying has shaken my Father to the point that I assume the worst.
My Father returns the telephone receiver to the cradle. He sits on the edge of the bed. He knows that I am awake but he shakes me gently - its pre-textual - but my Father is prone to formality. I appreciate the fact that he is. It is not contrived nor superficial. Its a strategy he employs to retain poise and dignity at all times in relating to others - he has inundated me with the importance of these habitual practices, though he has never verbalized nor explicated the significance therein. My Father informs me that my Mother’s second husband is dead - that my Mother is safe and has not been physically injured or otherwise harmed but that she is sedated and is in the hospital. He relays that he was told she was hysterical. He tells me that the Police insist on questioning her as soon as she is sufficiently lucid to submit to such interrogation, pending approval and clearance from the Doctor whose care she is under.
My Father looks me in the eye - and asks me if I trust him. I tell him that of course I do. He tells me that mistakes were made, in the manner that he raised me - in how he did not notice what he referred to as, ‘warning indicators’ relating to my Mother’s deteriorating psychic and emotional state. He asks me to forgive him for not taking me out of the situation in which I was mired (with my Mother and her psychopathic - just then deceased - second husband). He told he that he felt that he had gravely dishonored the family - and had compromised his own honor as a Man - by not pro-actively resolving the matter after my Mother left. My Father is ruled by the concept of honor - I had not the words to explain to him - to allow him absolution - at that moment. It was not until many, many years later until I was able to do so.
My Father told me that whatever was to happen from that moment forward, he would never leave my side - and that I must not then (or ever) capitulate to fear or despair. He complimented me for remaining calm and collected. I never, ever cry - save moments when I am all by myself. The last instance of which was months before when I left my Mother’s house and called my Father. My Father tells me he is confident that even were he not there to help me survive this emergent crisis, he is certain that I would survive and would not at that moment (nor ever) capitulate to weakness because I am his own son.
I am very very pleased that my Mother’s husband - my Stepfather - is dead. I had planned to murder him on several occasions but was always paralyzed by fear and moral restraint. My greatest terror was that he would kill my Mother and it would have been my fault, owing to inability to end his life when I’d had the chance. I maintain a stoic facade owing to being in my Father’s company. But my heart is broken. I feel an agony I cannot rationally describe - it endures until I see my Mother again - in the flesh - and learn she has avoided any liability for her late husband’s demise. I realize from then on that every moment I spend in my Mother’s company - moments that become rarer over time until the final years of her life - is borrowed time. My Mother is a doomed person. And her ultimate demise, decades subsequent, is the catalyst for my own destruction.
I know how difficult it is to put so much of yourself out there in writing like this. But this is really great writing. Thank you. The substack is really coming together, looking forward to the podcast as well
My mom had bad mental issues as well, but the difference between us two is my father did nothing about it and allowed the situation to swell until it killed her. He refuses to ever accept an ounce of responsibility. I've made peace with it, but he sure as hell hasn't.
Wonderfully written post, Thomas.