Why I Blame My Dad for My Divorce ~ started February 2012, completed April 2, 2019

Thank you daddy. Thank you for everything. Thank you for making sure that I had whatever I needed. Thank you for not giving me everything that I wanted. And, perhaps most importantly, thank you for teaching me the difference. You weren’t without faults and my childhood was not flawless, but you must know that. Come on, you can handle a little negative feedback, can’t you? In many ways, you and mom’s example prepared me well for married life: work hard, make sacrifices, show affection, divide and conquer, buy only what you can afford, compromise, and so on and so on. You and mom barely ever fought, or, you did it privately and hid it well. I suppose that was good for me in many ways but you ended up making it look easy. I’m sure it wasn’t, but as a child, it sure seemed it. You’ve been a wonderful dad but guess what, I blame you for my divorce. You read that right dad, I blame you dad for my divorce. I mean, how was I to know? How was I to know that a guy that displayed the same humility and warmth that you did would grow to become so proud and cold? How was I to know dad, that a young man that pursued me so fervidly, like you did with mom, would one day demonstrate such selfishness? How was I to know that the “nice guy”, so much like you dad, would turn out to behave so callously and indifferent? ...or, that a sweet and sensitive guy, so much like you dad, would discard me with such heartless disregard? ...or, that a partner that loathed conflict, like you did dad, would do anything to avoid it, including complete and abrupt desertion? ...or, that a loyal, dependable “man of his word” like you dad, would disappear without explanation? How was I to know dad? How was I to know that a man that promised forever, like you did dad, didn’t mean it? How was I to know that a man that seemed to demonstrate the same fortitude and courage in the face of childhood family dysfunction, poor financial circumstances and other similar early life challenges as you did would end up abandoning and dismissing me in such a cowardly manner? You see, as I moved from the teen years to becoming a young adult, I modeled every male I met after you dad. Instead of comparing them with you, however, and noting the differences, which in most cases would’ve likely caused me to run for the hills, I sought out similarities and inadvertently assigned to them qualities that they didn’t really possess. What seemed to be qualities of depth and integrity, like the ones you have, were really surface features. Like the man that built his house on sand instead of on a firm foundation the winds came and revealed what was really there. There wasn’t enough to hack the storms. Andy seemed to have the important qualities that you have dad: humility, warmth, kindness, attentiveness, kindness, sensitivity, loyalty and dependability. He didn’t like conflict, but who does? You made me believe that a person that prefers to sidestep conflict can still work through difficulties, persevere and stay devoted, but, I’ve since learned from both my experience with my ex-husband and from my many years of working as a therapist that it is a rare thing for a conflict avoidant person to stand firm in a long-term relationship through the inevitable ups and downs without a tremendous amount of commitment and hard work. Maybe it would have been different if I had lowered my expectations, but you set the bar high dad, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Daddy Poem I Never Wanted to Write ~ April 2019

When did I lose you daddy? Where did you go? You weren’t able to tell me So how could I know? When did I lose you daddy? When did you go? Was it when you didn’t remember the last time you saw me? Or, was it when you couldn’t say ‘I love you’ back to me? Was it when you gazed at me with confusion in your eyes? Or, was it the day that you died? When did I lose you daddy? You were still there, so why did I already miss you so? You seemed a different man daddy That damned disease killed you long before you took your last breath. When did I lose you daddy? Or maybe I never did And maybe I never will For you’re still here daddy... ...in the sarcastic wit I inherited from you or learned by your constant demonstration ...in your lasting example, in being both cautious and cynical while still seeing the world through eyes of optimism and gratitude ...in the contagious joy you shared any time you saw a child, whether known and loved or some little unknown passerby ...in the appreciation you displayed in enjoying little things, such as people watching and feeding the birds ...in the creativity you inspired in your ability to find safe public places for quick power naps ...in the earnestness you modeled when you patiently taught me the “right” side of the road when riding a bicycle ...in your example of generosity in time, energy and thoughtfulness ...in the wisdom you passed along from a life well led including “Only buy why you can afford” and “If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is” ...in how you respectfully you treated your wife, your family, your friends and acquaintances; even your adversaries ...in the stories we will tell over and over and over until we share them together again one day ❤️

The Right Side Of The Road: Some of Dad's Life Instructions ~ By Lori (DeMartin) MacKenzie, written September 2014

Which is the right side of the road? Is there really a right and a wrong? Show me Daddy, I don't understand Help me to bike along What is the right way to ring the register? How do I count change back? I build my confidence by watching you. With these things, you have a knack. What is the right way to turn around? Why is it called a three-point turn? What would I do without you Daddy? How would I ever learn? What is the right time to check the oil? How do I change it too? Thank you for all your help Daddy, Without you I'd have no clue. What is the right time to move away? When am I ready to leave? You never hesitated to encourage my plans You even helped me to believe. What is the right way to plan my day? How do I know what to do when? I know. I'll make a list like you I'll get me some paper and a pen What is the right major and job for me? What should I do for work? Do your job even when you don't want to It's a responsibility you cannot shirk What is the right way to handle money? How do I keep it straight? Buy what you can afford and nothing more. Pay on time and never be late. Who is the right man for me to marry? What if I make a mistake? There are not many out there like you Dad I discovered that once a little too late What is the right way to deal with loss? Why did you hate my tears? You didn't want to see me sad I didn't know for all of those years Now I know the right side of the road What you've shown me, Daddy, I apply Work hard and plan, be honest and cautious and it turns out, it's ok to cry

Big Girls Do Cry

Big Girls Do Cry ~Imago healing in real life By Lori A. MacKenzie "Big girls..........don't cry (they don't cry) Big girls........don't cry"........The unmistakable falsetto of Frankie Valli bellowed from the living room turntable as my mom, older sister and I sang and danced while doing Saturday morning chores. Like so many other songs back in the mid-70s, I never payed much mind to the message of this Four Seasons classic. The energizing doo wop sound and the inevitable bond it created from our shared love of all things "Frankie and the Four" were all it was about for me. Any message conveyed in the song's catchy title and frequent refrain were lost on me, at least consciously. I never heard the words "big girls don't cry" uttered directly to me, yet, I did believe them. My dad was a hard worker who held two jobs throughout my childhood. He provided us with all that we needed, which was quite a bit more than he had received as a child. We didn't see him as much as I would've liked. In my early teens, I volunteered to accompany him to his part-time evening convenience store cashier job just so I could spend more time with him. I remember that I always wanted to please my dad. That's not to say that pleasing my mom didn't matter. I guess given the time I spent with her and our closer relationship in general, I felt like I had that covered. I was not always so sure with dad. I was a sensitive child, more so than I even realized at the time. Mom and dad were both level-headed problem-solver types who were either able to communicate and make tough decisions with little to no observable conflict or, they were fabulous at hiding it. They seemed emotionally well matched, enough so that I felt different from both of them in this respect. I learned early on that the expression of strong "negative" feelings, such as anger or sadness, especially in the form of tears, caused my dad a great deal of discomfort. I can recall several instances where some situation brought me to tears when my dad withdrew and/or seemed distressed and annoyed. I truly felt dismissed and rejected. My mom, likely responding to dad's unease, would try to circumvent and attempt to squelch my distress. At times, it felt more for his benefit than mine. The message I got was that it bothered dad when I was upset and that it is better not to be upset. Inside, I was overflowing with emotions that I didn't understand. Still, I determined through these experiences, though mostly outside of my direct awareness, that feeling and expressing difficult emotions was unwise, maybe even bad. Perhaps Frankie was right, big girls don't cry. I got really good at focusing on the positive, often to the neglect of any unfavorable feelings. I was on the fast track to becoming a passive and accommodating people pleaser; a potential human doormat. Some tough blows in my early years of college helped changed that. Those stories are for another time. As a psychology student pursuing a counseling degree, I understood the strong unconscious attraction people have to the qualities of their childhood caretakers, both positive and negative. When Andy and I began getting serious while dating in college, I did find he shared many of my dad's wonderful traits. He was kind, generous, funny, hard-working, humble, sweet, oh, and handsome. Although slow to start, I fell head over heels for my college sweetheart. We married after dating for six years. During our brief three year marriage, the response of my then husband to my tears was painfully reminiscent of those childhood moments. It turns out that my first husband was also a logic-minded problem-solver in addition to being a poor communicator and serious conflict avoider. My tears, often present for reasons I could not put into words, were likely a confusing and unsolvable problem to him. What does the ultimate logic-minded problem-solving passive conflict avoider do when his wife shows a wide range of potent emotions which frequently involve tears, often for no tangible reason? He walks away. Leaving for good and filing for divorce were his final and ultimate conflict avoidance strategies. It turns out he wasn't like my dad after all; at least not in the ways that truly counted. I was devastated. There was no sugar coating this pain. I didn't know what kind of response to expect from my dad. I suppose it crossed my mind that he may not directly respond to it all that much and instead indirectly support me as he had in the past by handing me some money, filling my gas tank or checking the oil in my car. Surely he knew that mom would be ready and available for comfort and support. I arrived at mom and dad's house for a summer weekend visit with wounded and battered heart in tow. I wasn't looking for a miracle, just some Cape Cod ocean air and a little TLC. I was completely unprepared for what happened next. How was I to ever imagine that the emotional needs I had been subconsciously trying to meet through my soon-to-be ex-husband, the efforts for which likely significantly contributed to his abrupt and final departure, the needs I had been seeking to fulfill since I was a young girl, were about to be met by the man I had yearned to have them met by all along. I walked into my childhood home, likely looking ragged from daily sobbing and sleep deprivation, attempting to put on a brave face. Mom gave me a reassuring squeeze, a kiss on the cheek and blurted out her usual "Have you eaten? Are you hungry?" Nodding my head "no" I went over to dad for our customary hug and kiss. He snatched and squeezed me in a way I had never experienced from him before. This surprising gesture immediately weakened my defenses and I crumbled into a well of bitter tears. I could tell he was weeping some as well. A lump in my throat left me speechless for several moments. When I was able to speak, I whispered through the tears, "I'm trying daddy. I'm doing the best that I can" (Even while distraught and immersed in grief, I think that I was still trying to please him). He tearfully responded with a simple "I know" He then hugged me even tighter. I felt an unbelievable validation in the midst of anguish. Years of painful feelings of perceived emotional rejection immediately melted away. It has only been in recent years that I learned how misconstrued the interpretation I had in childhood of my dad's reactions to my tears and other signs of distress were. For all of those years, I was convinced that my negative emotions were a bothersome and annoying nuisance to him. I was sure of it. I was dead wrong. It turns out, as mom recently explained, that when dad appeared annoyed with me, he was actually hurting for me. He was hurting over my hurt. When dad seemed rejecting, he was really feeling helpless. It took one of the biggest hurts of my life, my divorce, for dad to finally show his own hurt, vulnerability and sense of helplessness. One day in more recent years, happily remarried and over 20 years beyond the divorce, I noticed something I had never noticed before. While listening to a Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons collection, "Big Girls Don't Cry" came on and for some reason I paid attention to the lyrics. That's when I heard it, "Shame on you, you told a lie. Big girls do cry" Say what? How did I miss that over all of those years? Even Frankie knows it. It turns out that big girls do cry. And sometimes they can find comfort and love in the arms of their daddy.

The Day My Dad Embraced My Daughter's Long White Cane

"Don't forget your cane" I reminded my then 8-year old vision-impaired daughter Mandy as she got ready to take a walk with her Papa to the convenience store across the way to get some gummy life savers.

"Nah, she doesn't really need it" my dad insisted, his granddaughter more than willing to agree. She often welcomed a break from taking her cane with her. This was usually fine if she ventured in familiar areas when it was clear and sunny out. It was a bright beautiful day and she was with her Papa, so I conceded. 

Mandy received her first long white cane shortly before entering 1st grade. I remember that first conversation with her mobility teacher vividly. She brought up the plan to introduce a cane to Mandy in a gentle, sensitive manner, as if expecting a strong negative emotional response, resistance or even outright refusal. Neither my husband Scott, Mandy's dad, nor I are one for denial. Each having been through a painful divorce several years earlier, we both tended to face the reality of inescapable difficulties head on. During the conversation with Mandy's teacher, I remember almost feeling compelled to reassure her that it was ok. I was trying to convey "No need for kid gloves. We can handle it. If you think she needs it, then she needs it." A short time later, Mandy received her first long white mobility cane. Since she started with it while she was still quite young, she adjusted to having and using it fairly well. It didn't take long for us to see its usefulness in the life of our daughter. Other people around us, however, weren't necessarily so positive or open-minded about the cane. It's funny how people seem able to handle hearing that our daughter has a incurable blinding retinal disease but then have great difficulty accepting her need for and use of a cane. Obvious signs of disability make many people very uncomfortable. Most of these people saw little of Mandy's daily struggles with mobility and likely saw her as too capable and not disabled enough to need it. My folks didn't say too much, but it was evident that they had mixed feelings at best about the cane.

Mandy and Papa went for their customary weekend candy walk. When they returned about twenty minutes later, dad seemed distraught, muttering under his breath in frustration. While Mandy amused herself in the backyard happily feasting on her treats, I heard dad murmur to my mom, "The poor kid. She tripped all over the place. Poor kid."

I went over to my Dad and challenged him. "Dad, I want you to take Mandy on the exact same walk tomorrow, but this time have her use her cane. Then, tell me how it went." He quietly obliged.

The sun rose Sunday morning and so did Mandy's suspicions when Papa initiated an unheard of second candy walk. She eagerly readied herself and gave no resistance to Papa's suggestion to grab her cane on the way out. 

They returned about a half an hour later both appearing tuckered and stoical. Not surprisingly, Dad didn't instantly reveal his impression. He went to lie down for a nap. When he awoke, I went to him and asked, "Well?" Seeming to avoid eye contact, he replied in a very matter-of-fact manner, "It really does make a difference. You've done what is right for her" I know my dad. Even though he was not looking directly at me, I could see in his eyes the pain and grief that comes with acceptance. Attempting to reassure, I added, "Dad, she is still Mandy. The cane doesn't change her. She is the exact same person with or without the cane. However, with the cane she is supported and confident instead of insecure and full of self-doubt, not to mention potentially unsafe. We wouldn't take a walk without wearing our eyeglasses, right? It's kind of the same thing. She uses a cane Dad and it's ok" He managed to keep the tears which were quickly welling up in his eyes from falling down his cheeks. A quick hug and two words, "I know" were the end of the matter that day. 

In the several years since during our Cape Cod weekends, the cane comes along on most excursions and stays put for others depending on factors and needs which Mandy is keenly aware. It has become such a familiar fixture in our lives that unless an outsider makes a comment or has a reaction, it is no longer debated and rarely discussed. Except, of course, when she leaves it behind nearly everywhere we go (grin)

The Miracle Of Mediocrity

It is 8th grade graduation at Higgins Middle School in Peabody, MA.  In the midst of announcements recognizing junior honor society members, scholarship recipients, superlative winners and top students in records of attendance and community service, please let me introduce you to an academically average and otherwise ordinary student, my daughter, Mandy.  Her name will not be announced for any awards today.  She sits among a large sea of faces in the letter "M" section of the incoming freshman high school class of 2019. 

To many, the most outstanding thing about Mandy is that she is "the kid with the cane" the only student out of 450 in the 8th grade graduating class who uses a long white cane for safe independent travel.

Mandy is not on the president's list.

She is not a member of the student council.

She does not volunteer as a peer mentor or tutor.

She is not in the band or on a sports team. 

She does not have perfect attendance because with four eye disease specialists, appointments inevitably get scheduled during school hours. 

Her artwork does not hang from the school corridor walls, though her boundless imagination colors everything she touches.

She doesn't formally cheer at athletic events, but she is the most lively 

cheerleader of American history that her 8th grade social studies teacher has ever seen.  

Mandy is not on record as one who "volunteered the most hours at the local food pantry"  Her community service is encouraging a newly relocated shy classmate and consoling a much younger bus mate temporarily trapped in a damaged seatbelt.

Her exemplary performance comes not in straight A's, but in achieving just one semester of honor roll while juggling lessons in Braille, assistive technology and orientation & mobility.

Her superb memory does not produce perfect test scores, but it does inspire choosing a year end gift for a favorite teacher based on an offhand remark made several months earlier, at the start of the school year.

She is a member of the honor society for perseverance. 

She earns a 4.0 in enthusiasm.

Her superlative is for most inquisitive.

Her biggest achievement is adaptability.

She is a recipient of scholarships for courage and kindness. 

Mandy's strength comes out of her weakness and her assets are a direct result of her limitations.  My daughter is daily learning to make advantage out of disadvantage. 

It is a beautiful adventure to witness the miracle in mediocrity. 

Teetering Between Loving Sleep & Hating Sleep

I Hate Narcolepsy

written 

May 18, 2015

Half alive

Half a life

At least that's how it feels

Maybe less

Maybe more

Half if some I steal

A monkey always on my back

Dreams just out of reach 

Ideas that I don't realize

Ambitions I don't seek

Dreams stay dreams, ideas stay thoughts

Trapped inside my head

Rest is never restful

A chore inside my bed

Every day a battle

Having to pretend

Sleep a daunting enemy

Sleep a welcome friend

I'm not just tired, I'm more than sleepy

Can you understand?

I'm something that I can't describe

A zombie in demand

Half a life

Half alive

Alert to only some 

Mind and body are at war

A victory for none