Love Drunk on Valentine Day: Who Will Save the Boys

If all men are trash, what does that say about the rest of society? Maybe it's time to dig deeper

Photo by Marta Nogueira: https://www.pexels.com/photo/red-paper-heart-ripped-in-half-on-dark-background-broken-heart-separation-concept-19977498/...

My very first hero was my dad; I think he still is. His story is like many immigrants', yet distinct. After hurricane George, with only a few dollars left in his pockets and not many career prospects in Dominica, my father dropped everything (and everyone) to travel to the United States of America for a new life.

There are not many instances in my lifetime that I can say he has hesitated out of fear. If he wanted something, he went after it, no matter the costs. More often than not, what he wanted was the affection of a beautiful woman, and once he came to the states, there was an endless supply to romance. Did I mention that my father is a womanizer?

Maybe I should be kinder, it’s not that simple. If I could describe his vice with more empathy, I would say that he is a hopeless romantic, with a boundless capacity for love. A love that has always focused on the opposite sex, and as much as one woman might capture his heart, it was only a matter of time before he was descending into an affair with a new lover. My father would tell you that he was “Too Nice,” that he struggled to say “good bye.” So the last flame would not be doused, she would instead believe that she was my fathers one and only, and await his return with open arms.

To his credit, he would come back, but usually with the scent of another woman on his collar, and sweet lies falling from between his lips. The end was usually not far after this. When I was young, I didn’t quite understand what my he was up to, and why there seemed to be a revolving door of romantic partners. What I did know was that I wanted to be just like him. And to the younger version of myself, my father could do no wrong. Unfortunately, like many of these women, I too would find my love and admiration for him repaid with empty promises, and disappointment.

I spent countless days hoping that he would choose me, and as much as my father loves me, he couldn’t help but be who he was. This pain caused a natural shift. After spending my younger year trying to be just like him, the second half of my life has been dominated by a desperate sprint to escape his shadow. I don’t know when, or how, but at some point I made the decision to do everything possible not to replicate the places in his life I believed there to be failure. There was only one problem with this plan. What I soon learned was that the harder I ran away from him, the closer I got to his legacy. And before I knew it, we were standing face to face, I had failed in my efforts to leave it behind me. With nowhere else to go, the only thing left to do was accept the truth.

I’m not sure when or if this moment ever happened for my father, but at some point in my life I was told I was not enough. And after it was told to me, it was exhibited enough times that it went from being background noise to gospel. And from hostile gospel I learned to accept a lie as truth. That acceptance created a vast emptiness inside of me. I didn’t know at first, but I felt it, the feeling of being a burden, of fearing that those around you would toss you aside, knowing that the world would not skip a beat without you walking the earth.

I think my father struggles with this as well, and I believe he’s spent 80 years on this earth trying to fill that void with an endless stream of women. He charmed them, loved them, fucked them, made promises he couldn’t keep and then broke them. But who could blame him? This was all he ever knew. I think in those small moments, he meant everything he said to every woman, and each and everyone was special in his eyes, but what he was looking for, he could never find in the softness of their kisses, or the heat they built under the sheets. So, instead of breaking the cycle, he continued the chase, hoping to find himself in the process.

Intellectually, I understand that no amount of romantic partners can ever make me feel like a man, my vice of choice is love, but through admiration. I accumulated love and support by making my self small and large at the same time, it’s my super power.

I make people laugh, I become the problem solver, the smartest person in the room, the leader, the fixer. I make people feel comfortable, I help them feel seen, and let them know they are cared for. I do all of this for the sake of affection, and as the love would grow, I would shrink myself. Put my needs to the side, become even more agreeable, ignore my boundaries, and make excuses, all for the hope of never losing the love I had so expertly accumulated. But here’s the thing about those measures I took, they didn’t work. I still lost love, I failed, I couldn’t be all of the things and erase myself at the same time, and when I fell short of the paper castles I had built, I would feel like nothing.

It was in those moments of solitude that my fathers legacy would catch me, and I would once again be forced to see how much of him still existed within me. If I wanted things to be different, I had to break the cycle. So I did.

Breaking the cycle wasn’t easy, it takes committing to doing something different, and then showing up everyday to make sure that commitment sticks. I started therapy, I purposely slowed down, I forced myself to get used to discomfort, because what felt good hadn’t served me. I committed to being a work in progress, I still am. But what all of this effort rewarded me with was the clarity that I am in fact enough, I need no special talent, relationship, or accomplishment to matter, I just do. The work is never done though, so I constantly have to remind myself of this, and there are moments where I fall into bad habits, but I’m much quicker to catch myself, and I’m better off for it.

There are times when I am reminded of who I used to be, and what I still struggle with everyday. What may surprise you is that those gentle reminders usually happen when I’m interacting with other men. I see it in their smiles, in their anger at society, in their loud determination to not look “weak.” So many boys and men are hurting, even more are crying out for help, but they’re doing it in a language that most of society does not speak. I have felt their pain, and speak their language, so I can see it, but my eyes alone are not enough.

With the help of people in my life, I was able to pinpoint the moment I started to believe the lie that I wasn’t enough. I am doing the work to never go back to that version of myself, countless of other men are also doing that work as well. But we need your help. There is another set of men and boys who are fighting in the wild on their own, we can’t expect things to be different if we don’t find ways to reach them. Because for every man that figures it out, and finds another path, there are ten who are like my father, solidified in their hurt, and sharing that pain out freely.