Making Peace with a Doppelgänger
“Who was he?” I’d often wonder.
Does he miss me?
Does he care?
On significant occasions like holidays, graduations and birthdays, there was always that moment of wonder for me. I figured he must. If I had a son, I’d care. Dads care about their kids, right?
He must wonder… like I wonder about him.
For years, I wasn’t aware of how painful and “hollow” the ‘not knowing’ really was or made me feel.
I cried the first time I saw the photo on the left. It was the first time I had ever cried about my birth father since my parents’ separation when I was six.
“I look like him!” I thought. It sort of freaked me out, shocked because I hadn’t EVER identified with him in any way. Until that moment. It felt incongruous — perhaps I had spent much of my growing up years dissociating. And then, I was looking at his smile and it seemed so… familiar. Like looking in a mirror.
I had come across that photo while rummaging through his belongings at his home after his funeral in the late 90s. I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye in person.
I was too late.
He died while I was mid-flight, somewhere over the Pacific.
Fortunately for me, two years prior, I was successful in meeting him for the first time after 20 years. In my mid-20s, I felt like I was finally old enough to get some answers.
I was at war with depression, suicidal thoughts, migraines. I knew I needed to do everything I could to find healing and wholeness to fill the emptiness that had plagued my soul since he left. I knew I needed to make peace with my past. Terrified about what I might learn, but pained enough to finally take action to seek closure.
I had tracked him down. Without Google even. I had written letters to various organizations overseas, made phone calls, interviewed relatives who might have known his whereabouts, inquired with government entities, etc.
I had found him. I arranged to meet up with him for a few days. It was an awkward occasion to say the least. Surreal. Like looking into an “aging mirror” seeing myself 20 years later. Total out of body experience. Nonetheless, I did it.
Up to that point, and frankly, even now, I rarely ever talk about my birth father.
The truth is, I can barely say his name without some sort of hesitation — perhaps it’s a mix of guilt, fear — within me, as if mentioning his name were somehow forbidden. Perhaps it was, especially since my mom had remarried and a new step-dad entered the picture. Whenever my father did come up, the tensions were high.
Perhaps deeper still… I am ashamed.
I don’t have many memories of him. At least, not many positive ones. I do, however, remember old 8mm footage of him playing ball with me at a park. That’s it.
Most of my memories of him are of him and my mom — fighting, arguing, lots of passive-aggressive behaviors between them, and me just overwhelmed and feeling very confused, terrified, and alone.
I hadn’t really thought about my father since. But moving back from Japan last year, helping my step-dad enjoy the rest of his life while facing his ever declining bout with dementia, healing old festering wounds, living near mom and dad again, dealing with quarantines and pandemic fears, combatting misinformation and paranoid & delusional thinking, adjusting to a shift in the culture of the States, living a semi-retired life — I feel very raw.
It’s been a crazy year.
Turning 50 sort of made me revisit those existential questions and peel off the next layers of discovery in anticipation of the next 50: Who am I? What needs yet to be resolved or be released? What needs to be birthed anew or nurtured to grow? How expansive can I be now? The truth is, I don’t want the next 50 to be like my first. It’s time to be free and LIVE!
I don’t really know why I’m sharing all this. Perhaps finding this photo in my Mac Photos again just brought things to mind. Perhaps saying what I haven’t ever said publicly before is liberating. I don’t want to be afraid or ashamed about him anymore. I can love my step-dad AND my birth father all the same. And I want to remind myself, that I don’t need to wonder if he cared.
I’m reminded of this. My aunt told me, while on his deathbed…
when he had heard the news my brother and I were on our way,
he cried, “I’m overjoyed. My two sons are coming. They’re coming!”
His name is Paul.
He’s my father.
I am his first born.
I miss him.
I hope he’s proud of me.
I wish we had more time.
