Fishing for Solace
Yesterday, I went fishing. It’s become a small way to step out of the house and into the world, even if just for a few hours. I’ve slowly begun finding things pulling me from the isolation that’s clung to me for years. Friends, family, or some passerby might see me out there, casting a line or simply interfacing with the world, and think, “He’s doing alright. He’s getting out. Things must be going better for him.” But they don’t see the weight I carry, nor could they begin to comprehend the battles I fight every day just to keep moving forward, to stay alive.
Back in 2017, I began a grueling fight for equitable time with my kids. I’d already had joint custody from the divorce and spent more than the usual, 2 days every other weekend, amount of time with them, but I noticed things that made me believe they’d thrive with a more predictable schedule and equal time with both parents. My ex, however, saw it differently. She assumed I was trying to dodge child support and alimony. Though substantial, those financial burdens weren’t my primary focus, my kids were; my solution was simple: keep the money. But nonetheless, her perspective on how things could end up shifted how she interacted with them, and, to my relief, some of the issues I’d been concerned about began to improve.
What I didn’t anticipate was the storm that followed. One of the ironies was that months before I began to push for equitable time, a professional reached out to me with concerns about my kids and their mother, but after filing the motion my ex managed to turn that person against me, weaponizing her influence; the same woman that just months prior had deep concerns about my ex. Funny (not funny) how this person witnessed things from the outside and was compelled to call me out of the blue but yet was easily manipulated from conjecture and a postured narrative. Teachers and preschool staff who saw my kids daily had a different view, but their voices didn’t carry the weight of the other titles or friends she could get to testify their hearsay based upon her hearsay. It felt like the system favored many things, especially credentials, over truth. Then, strategically right before my wedding, my ex filed an order for protection against me and a restraining order against my wife, based on an impossible allegation from an alleged incident a month prior. If I believed someone had harmed my kids, I’d have been at their door the next day, not waiting weeks to act. And furthermore, to pretend that I’d be ok with someone harming my kids simply because I was in a romantic relationship is pure lunacy. You could be “God” himself and I’d be prepared to face the consequences of facing you for physically harming my kids. The accusation was preposterous, but it didn’t matter.
That moment began the spiral into a deep, dark depression (from which, I will never recover fully). Family court, I then learned, isn’t about real law. The standard for evidence is shockingly low, yet the consequences are lifelong, for you and your children. Unlike criminal court, there’s no “right to an attorney”, and fighting is pay-to-play. My case dragged on because the judge kept granting continuances. When I researched her, I discovered she was a former domestic violence advocate. The allegations against me? Domestic violence-along with a litany of allegations in a diary spanning from the year I met her; which, for the record made no sense. If all these accusations were true, why marry me, why have a kid with me, why stay with me, why have another kid, and another? Why was I the one to say “enough is enough” and separate? Either she maliciously made things up -or- worse yet, believes these skewed and/or fabricated stories to be true (for the record, her recantations are so convincing I believe the latter is true). Somehow, by stating a grain of truth in a story, it seemingly validates the remainder no matter how preposterous. I knew I was facing an uphill battle, not just against my ex but against a system that seemed predisposed to side with the mother, especially when abuse claims were involved. Evidence or not, “caution” for the “best interest” trumped truth.
The deeper I sank, the more I questioned words like “justice” and “equity.” What I heard back was that justice is for those that can afford it or those that can bear happenstance. Eventually, I was handed a temporary order, and the message from my ex and her attorney was clear: give up, or we’ll keep filing against you until you’re broke or in jail. Neither option allowed me to remain a father. Meanwhile, my children were suffering as a consequence of the fighting, regardless of who’s “winning” or “losing”; I felt complicit in their pain and that by actively fighting I was exacerbating their hurt when I knew that I lost the day that judge was assigned to my case. So, I chose the path that kept me alive, off the streets, and able to care for another child I’d taken in, a child whose biological father had no interest in parenting. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’m sure the story is and will remain that, “he chose another family over you”, as I recall one of her exchanges with me had implied.
After that decision, I became a zombie. I moved to a new place, far enough to avoid the constant reminder of being near my kids but unable to see them. I worked night shifts, existed solely to provide for my wife and the child I’d inherited, and hid from the world. I didn’t meet my neighbors. I didn’t connect with anyone. I just survived. After all, who can really live with themselves after feeling like you’ve given up on your kids in a lose-lose-lose; I still made the decision and have to live with it. And believe me, I’m reminded every day that I don’t have to live…with it.
About a year or so later, something shifted. With my wife’s help, A group of incredible people in my neighborhood slowly coaxed me out of my shell. Looking back, I realize they saved my life. (Dear old neighbors:) Genuinely, I don’t know that I would’ve found that I still have purpose if I hadn’t been so fortunate to have been plopped onto THAT street at THAT time to have stumbled into such a wonderful amalgamation of people on that street. If you’re reading this, know I love you from the bottom of my heart and I truly owe you my life. Because of you, I deepened my advocacy for others in lieu of the missed time, became an active neighbor figure in the community, and found purpose again: serving and loving others. Come to think of it, some conversations I’ve had have helped others stay alive; you’ve helped countless families by showing love to me. You and my fellow advocates, many who, like you, feel like family to me, have saved me and continue to do so (-Thank you). Three years ago, we moved again but I still visit and try to keep up. Though I still keep to myself compared to many, fishing has become my way of stepping back into the world the past few weeks. It’s a small act of reclaiming my life, but it’s not without pain.
Two weeks ago, I was fishing on a pier that stretched into the lake. A man about my age, maybe a bit older, appeared on the horizontal section closer to shore. In addition to everything I’ve been through, I’m very empathetic (all the feelings all the time); I’m hyper-aware of people around me, always watching, always cautious. I noticed in the corner of my eye he was staring out at the water, lost in thought, and I sensed his pain before he even spoke. We exchanged a few words, and despite wanting peace my empathy compelled me to engage. What I said was intentional and tactically disarming, he then shared that his father had died a few days earlier. He was struggling, holding his family together while grappling with grief. I told him a bit about my story, how my parents are alive but seem indifferent to my life, how I carry guilt for that despite it not being my fault. I told him he was fortunate to have had a good father, one worth mourning, and that his presence on that pier honored his dad’s legacy as he recalled fishing with his father.
We talked about his kids, too, and I learned he was navigating his own family court battles but mostly on the other side of it. Here I was, a father who hasn’t seen his kids in seven or eight years, speaking life into another father struggling to follow in his father’s footsteps and deepen his relationship with his children. He had no idea the darkness that lurked beneath, nor did I have the heart to tell him.
Yesterday, I was back at the lake, fishing alone off the bank for about 20 minutes when a family approached, a couple about my age (mid-late 30’s or early 40’s) with a seven year old boy and a five year old girl. They were fishing with a net and a bucket but weren’t having much luck. I was catching fish left and right, so I packed up my gear and offered to swap spots. They declined at first, but eventually, they wandered closer. I struck up a conversation with the father, who admitted he was new to fishing. I shared that I’d fished as a kid and a few times as a young adult with a dear friend who’s since passed away a decade ago, and this was my way of starting over.
Noticing their gear wasn’t set up for success, I offered some of my extra tackle. We set up their lines, and soon, the kids, the father, and I were fishing together while his wife sat peacefully nearby, taking in the scene. I poured my heart into those kids and their dad, sharing fishing tips and life advice. I told him to cherish every moment with his kids because they grow up fast, a truth I know too well because I don’t have those moments anymore and I missed all the ones he’s about to have. He also had no idea about my story, but I could tell my words were sinking in. It felt good to help, to serve, but it’s never without it’s toll.
Driving home, I broke down (if I’m being honest, this happens more than anyone will ever know). Tears streamed as I realized I’m a father to everyone else’s kids, a guide to other fathers, but I can’t be a father to my own and I can’t make my father or mother take steps to be in my life either. I live a life of service, but it’s rarely returned. I’m tired. I want love and support too, but even if I begged, I wouldn’t get what I desperately need and from where it needs to come from: to fulfill my role as both father and son. Stepping out my front door means exposing my heart, and while it’s an honor to serve others, it tears me apart. Driving home in my truck, I was acutely reminded why I hide from the world.
The “…you’ll get to see your kids some day…” is a bitter comfort pill that worsens with every passing birthday, month, and year. I won’t prescribe myself false hope. If there’s a miraculous remedy, I’ll be grateful. Until then, I will accept my terminal prognosis and die fighting. I don’t plan to harm myself. I have reasons I should want to live for but if nothing else, pure spite keeps me going. I refuse to give those who’ve hurt me the justification for doing what they’ve done or don’t do. But the thought crosses my mind every day. I don’t talk about it because I don’t want attention, sympathy, or questions. I don’t want to hear, “What really happened?” or “Why aren’t you fighting anymore?”. I just hurt. I’m tired. And in a world that seems to sneer at fathers like me, all I want is to be loved. I suppose I should dispense with my “toxic masculinity” and “male privilege” ( https://www.fathersanon.org/blog-2/check-your-male-privilege )
Fishing is my small rebellion against myself, my way of stepping into the world despite the pain. It’s where I find fleeting moments of peace and connection, even if they come at a cost. Maybe one day, I’ll find a way to heal without breaking. Until then, I’ll keep casting my line, hoping for something more.
”Anonymous”
Fathers Anonymous
