by Ace Bowers
I want to start with my dad, a good man who, for the most part, did the best that he could. My parents recently moved out to the countryside near Monterey, and he loves it there because of its beauty and the convenient, reasonably-priced cost of living. My dad is now 65 but continues to work because my parents were never able to save for retirement. He commutes to work, two hours each way, every day. Our family used to visit my parents often, but now because of distance, we limit our social calls to the holidays.
This past Father’s Day was the most recent holiday we visited them. Most of the family had come over—even my brother and his kids. My dad and I were outside looking at his chickens, and he mentioned offhand that he needed to buy some chicken feed. I offered to take him to the supply store; it was Father’s Day, and I was looking forward to some one-on-one time with my dad. As we rode through gorgeous green scenery and mature tree-lined roads, he directed my attention to the cluster of family farms we drove past. “When I’m driving through and I see them working the land,” he said, “God is here. I can feel it.” I knew he meant it because he said it with such pride and conviction. I looked at him: he rarely spoke with such emotion. As we rode down the countryside, I took the opportunity to ask him how my mom was doing.
My mom had always had a host of issues but over the past few years, her fears and anxiety had become so crushing that she hadn’t been able to leave the house. Early stages of agoraphobia had started setting in, and she couldn’t even bring herself to go to the grocery store anymore. My dad told me that the last time he tried to get her out of the house, they hadn’t even reached the end of the street before they had to turn around, her panic attack was so bad. It really hurts me to see her this way. They finally have their own home, surrounded by beautiful landscapes, but she can’t enjoy any of it and dad has to do things alone.
It should be apparent by now that anxiety and stress-related disorders run rampant in our family. It has become a generational curse, and just about everyone in my family, including myself, suffers from some version of anxiety. I didn’t know it as a child, but as it turns out, my dad lived with anxiety too, and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. He explained to me that after leaving the Navy, he suffered from unbelievably detrimental anxiety for about fifteen years. As a helicopter pilot in the Navy, he had been in multiple crashes both on land and in the ocean. Consequently, he now has to compulsively check things over and over to be sure they’re safe. He had an extensive checklist for when we’d take trips out of town. He needed to check things three or four times to feel safe. Eventually, my dad even admitted that the reason he used to rely on alcohol so much was because it soothed his anxiety.
During this chat, it dawned on me that we had entered new territory. My dad and I were close, sure, but we had never opened up to the extent that we were in this moment. There were never deep conversations on anxiety and mental health between us. These were uncharted waters. I thought that, since we were exploring new ground, I could take this opportunity to have a real heart-to-heart talk with him. I would need to initiate the conversation to keep it going because my dad didn’t always speak openly about his feelings, but I wanted to ask him a question about my mom. I was apprehensive on how to approach the topic. Cautiously, I mentioned that I recognized that mom put him through so much. I was hoping for more than his typical short answer, so, I simply asked him why he had never left.
He told me he didn’t believe in divorce. I paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to continue. Then he told me he wanted to keep the family together. See, he had been with my mom since they were teenagers, and he had been like a father figure to her younger sisters; he’d helped raise them. My mom was the oldest of three girls. In the first chapter, you’ll remember how my dad confided in me when I was younger that my mom’s father had molested her. What I didn’t tell you was that it had been my dad who found out.
My mother’s little sister had mentioned something to my dad, fifteen at the time, that he found strange, so he immediately confided in Nanny that something suspicious was going on. Had it not been for my dad sounding the alarm, who knows what would have happened. He had rescued my mother and her sisters from their own father. He looked at me then, and sincerely expressed how he knew I had had a rough childhood, but in the end he’d decided that keeping the family together took precedence over his own well-being. If it hadn’t been for my siblings and me, he would have left; it would have been easier to leave, but he held on. I’m not sure what the right decision was, but I told him how grateful I was that he’d stayed.
I told him that even as a kid, I knew my mom was unsteady. He had noticed some of her episodes back in high school when they were around sixteen, and as she got older, the episodes worsened. At the time, he was so in love with her that he just let it go. He confided in me that he’d asked her to get help, to go to therapy, but she refused. He had gone himself, but after a while it became pointless to go without her. As he spoke, I kept myself from interjecting with my own feelings, because my dad never got a chance to open up like this. I just listened. I could feel he really needed to get some things off his chest. Besides, I was learning valuable new things about my family, especially elements of my dad I never knew.
My family was good at keeping their feelings suppressed. That’s probably why I do it too. We stopped the talk for a minute to go inside and get the chickens their feed. I wasn’t sure if my dad would feel as talkative as he was on the drive up, but surprisingly he was. I told him how growing up, I thought mom had a split personality and when she drank it came out. It’s true that I had noticed her voice changing when she drank. He told me that it came out without the drinking, but the drinking did make it worse. Her voice, I remember, became almost childlike. I’d always wondered if she was reverting back to, or finding herself stuck in, a dark place in her childhood when her father had abused her. My dad had never been able to coax her into talking about the details of those events that triggered this undiagnosed PTSD. He tried to get her to open up, but she would just shut down. He learned all he knew from my mom’s sister.
He knew she was overwhelmed and overcome by her own past and inadvertently took it out on everyone around her, but even though she had some pretty bad moments, she was still the girl he fell in love with. He told me that he had tried everything with my mom. He tried to be calm, he argued back, and even ignored her but nothing worked. I remember her pushing and pushing his buttons and yelling at him to get out. But my dad stayed. Then he asked me if I remembered the night my mom tried to kill herself by overdosing on my sister’s pills. Of course I remembered—how could I ever forget?
That had been the final straw for him, he was done. The hospital called the next day and wanted him to pick her up and he flat out told them no! He told them she was insane, and he didn’t want to bring her back home around the kids. He begged them to take her to a facility or somewhere where she could get help or treatment. All the hospital could do was refer her to a psychiatrist. Of course, my dad picked her up, and when he did, he begged her to get help before she destroyed the family for good. My mom, always in a state of denial, retorted that she didn’t need help and that everything was his fault. In that moment, and for the first time, he saw her differently. The high school sweetheart he’d fallen for was gone.
As we fed the hens, he went on to tell me that to this day, she has never apologized to him for what she put him and our family through. I could see my dad’s demeanor change, and through the cracks in his mask, I saw how hurt and angry he had been for years. He told me, he thought he would take these secrets and feelings to his grave with him, but at least now I would know the truth. I told my dad I was thankful to him for everything he had done for me and for our family. I thanked him for opening up to me in this way. I felt closer to him and honored that he trusted me enough to share these painful memories. This gave me a look into our lives through his eyes. I learned enough to reshape my perspective that day.
Like I mentioned before, my mom and dad
are as opposite as opposite can be. While my mom has definitely contributed to the brunt of our family drama, she is also the heart of our family. I reflected on the time when Yuka and I had to move into my parents’ home after Noah was born. We were brand new parents ourselves and had no idea what we were doing. Although I dreaded moving back into my childhood home, I was secretly relieved to be near my mom while I learned how to care for an infant. To our relief, she was awesome and provided free childcare for us. This allowed Yuka and I to work and save money without the added financial burden of daycare. She did the same for my brother and sister’s children too.
During that time, my mom and I had many conversations on how to change diapers, what to do if the baby got sick, and all the typical things new parents panic about. I never realized it until now, but I think in some way, my mom’s presence gave me an extra boost of confidence I needed in the early stages of fatherhood.
My mom and I did share a bond growing up, and it is best expressed in our joint love of the classic children’s book I'll Love You Forever. She would read that book to me as a child, and my attention was fixated on every word. I couldn’t tell you how many times she’s read that book to me, and even as adults, we talked about our memories of that book fondly. We would reminisce about the times we shared reading it together, and my mom would always remind me how much she loved me whenever she referenced that book. It didn’t dawn on me until recently that I read this book to my own children now. As much as I strove to establish a distance between my painful childhood and my present, I was still passing down some of the fondest memories I hold. It was such a part of the fabric of my life, it feels only natural to read the book to my kids.
Being the type of guy who often buries his emotions, I never thought I’d have the courage to initiate an honest conversation with my mother. I was sitting at home one night, drinking whiskey. It turns out that, whenever I drink whiskey, I somehow lose that part of me that keeps everything suppressed. So, as I sat in my living room and continued to sip this liquid courage, I decided I’d call my mom. Now, I initially called her to talk about something completely different, but at some point, the conversation shifted in a different direction, heading straight for memory lane. Sipping on that whiskey and talking to my mom, I was compelled to tell her how I felt about her behavior over the years.
I very plainly told her the way she had acted while I was growing up was not acceptable. No child should ever have to experience what I had been through. This sudden declaration rattled me: keep in mind, this is the very first time I’ve ever brought up what I went through as a child to my mom. I have never spoken a word about how I felt, not one.
At first she wouldn’t admit to having done anything wrong, using the exact same tactic she had used on my father when he confronted her in the past about her behavior. But I wouldn’t let her off the hook. It was time she stopped hiding behind her denial. So, I persisted, and I pushed on, and I reminded her of the night she had tried to kill herself. Every single detail of that night was etched into my brain. What she had been wearing, the smell of burning vanilla incense, and the vivid picture of her being hauled away in the back of a police car. She grew increasingly defensive, refusing to acknowledge her mistakes. Part of me thought there might be a chance that she honestly didn't remember many of those episodes. After all, they happened 25 years ago and she had been drunk during many of them. But I persisted, unleashing every single bitter memory I had.
After vividly recalling countless events, she finally—finally—admitted to what she had done. I repeated, over and over again, that no child should see their parent attempt suicide. She responded to me sarcastically by stating she was so sorry for being such a horrible mother. But I wasn’t trying to make her feel bad, I wanted to show her how much her actions hurt others around her. Finally, she broke down crying and offered me a sincere apology for everything I had endured and witnessed as a kid. She told me all of that was a result of what she had experienced as a child herself. But I didn’t hate her or blame her. It was a relief to have at last opened her eyes.
This talk with my mom had been long overdue and remains one of the most therapeutic things I’ve ever done, next to writing this book. After my torrent of emotions had subsided, I felt lighter. I had been holding on to these words for 25 long years, and a weight I didn’t realize I’d been carrying suddenly lifted from my shoulders. After we hung up the phone that night, we never spoke of the subject again. The next time I saw my mom a month later, everything was normal. I wasn’t sure how to react or feel in light of this apparent normality, but I was still glad to have opened up to the extent that I had that night. With everything said and done, I still loved her.
Chapter 10
Overcoming and Self-Reflection
Release it and let go
When I first began writing this memoir, I think I was looking for an outlet to vent. I still wanted to fan the flames of frustration I feel for my parents to this day. Yet, during the few years it took me to write this book, my mission had changed. Now I know I am writing it to release everything I’ve pent up within me, and to hopefully help others in the process. Getting all of these memories—the good, the bad, and the ugly—onto paper was liberating. I feel free, whereas before, everything had been relentlessly bottled up and used as fuel to propel me out of a lifestyle I knew I didn’t want. I refused to repeat a cycle of dysfunction, and that fuel allowed me to give my kids something better than what I’d had. Now that I am finally in a better place, career-and family-wise, I realized I was still carrying this oppressive burden around. It was time to let it go, and this memoir provided me with a therapeutic outlet to do so. I learned so much about myself, my family, and life. I realized I was an overcomer: I had beat every odd, and through all of this self-reflection, I discovered how to release myself from the chains that had bound me for far too long.
I knew my parents, my brother, and my sister loved me. I was fortunate enough to have caring family members like Nanny and aunt Cindi. We could always lean on them for support. I lived in one of the most desired states in our country and I had tons of friends. Sounds great, right? And yet I maintained this internal pain, an overwhelming feeling of dejection that I couldn’t quite get a grasp of. No matter how I viewed my situation, I couldn’t shake the fact that I felt cheated, like my turbulent childhood had set me up for failure as I entered adulthood. I felt like my family’s shortcomings and financial problems had taken away untold opportunities from me, and I felt as though I was owed something.
I recently had the chance to evaluate many of my past relationships in my life: people I met briefly, mentors, friends, and even family. Some, I just revisited as a fond memory, while others I found myself delving into and reevaluating. In doing this, I recalled lessons I learned that shaped me, struggles I witnessed that strengthened my drive, and misjudgments I never realized I had made. And from this, I grew as a person. Reevaluating my life with new perspectives was very much like… having a garage sale where I cleaned out the junk I’d been holding onto and rediscovered old treasures I never guessed would be so special later on. It was like a spring cleaning for my soul.
I have been tested, treated both poorly and well through various jobs, and I have humbled myself by taking positions others would look down on. Rather than sit on the couch and hope a better job came along, I worked my way up from the life I acknowledged I needed to start from, to the life I have now. I know how it feels to struggle living off minimum wage, and the grit it takes to climb your way up to a salary that can support a family. Becoming a millionaire was merely a happy aftereffect, it was never my initial goal—providing a better life for my family was. But because I refused to settle, I excelled. Hard work, persistence, and drive contributed to the success I have had in my life and in my career. This is how I know the way you treat people matters. You should never underestimate a person or undervalue their worth. “Minimum wage” does not mean “dead end,” but rather a starting point, a first step into greatness, i
f you’ll allow the right mindset.
I have a newfound appreciation for my dad. He taught me more than I ever gave him credit for, and his selfless acts allowed my family to remain together, even throughout the hardest times. My brother made me appreciate the flaws inside all of us. Even though his absence from my life hurt, he still found a way to show me how much he loved me in his own way.
I shared a pivotal moment with my mom and released the anger I had built up inside over the years. I wanted to let her know the way she acted bothered me. I wrestled every day with the idea of forgiving her. I knew forgiveness would be good for me, but that didn’t make the task any easier. I was finally able to forgive her after our conversation that night. I love my mom, and though our past issues are still a work in progress, I have to try and focus on the good times. Maybe creating new, better memories will help erase, or at least soothe, old scars.
Everyone has milestones in their life. For some people, it may be graduating college or landing the perfect job, or celebrating that 25-year wedding anniversary. My milestones are a bit more humble and that’s okay, because they remain significant to me. Perhaps my greatest achievement was learning to overcome the worst circumstances and turn them into a life I could be proud to live. But most importantly, I think the biggest facet that has changed in me over the years is the way I measure success. I used to find success in materialistic things, like a fancy car or big house in a nice neighborhood. But if my kids are happy and healthy—if my wife is there with me, then that is success in my book.
I don’t have a college degree, yet I have found success. I don’t live in a mansion, yet I am comfortable. I don’t run a billion-dollar empire, yet I can inspire others to never give up. I can share my story, my life, and encourage others to make their own milestones unique to their own truths and experiences. We are our own person. If we don’t like our life the way it is, we have the power to change it. Just like I did.