I long for what a dad can teach his adult children

I could make a list of what he taught me. Driving a standard. Appreciating The Beatles. An affinity for old movies. Trying out different sports. Things that dads can teach. But at times, I forget I had a father. Forget he taught me things. He’s been dead for almost half my life. Considering I’m a few months shy of turning 40, I have started to realize just how young he was when he died—54. That’s not old. Although just before he died, I had already started to consider him as nearing the end of his life.

It was the depression and suicidal ideation—his, not mine. Because ironically, a few years before he died, we were in the same hospital for a relatively extended stay—me in the psych ward for two weeks due to suicide attempts, him three floors above in detox due to his unrelenting alcoholism. We had the same doctor assigned to us.

Almost two decades after his death, I consider what he taught me. Not just those dad things. But I long for what a dad can teach his adult children. The personal life things, which maybe, in a way, he did teach me through his own life. I’m just now realizing this. Get sober. Do what you love. Be responsible so you don’t create a life of chaos. Do things that keep your hands busy while your mind sorts through life.

He worked with wood during his short sobriety stint. Made me a bookcase and a toy chest for his grandson as he learned how to be sober. While my nephew still has that chest, I had to give up the bookcase years ago during a cross-country move. Practically had a life crisis in that moment because of it. But as my friend said, “He’s already dead. Getting rid of the bookcase doesn’t mean you’re losing him again.” So it’s OK.

Each stitch I knit is a message

Now, I knit, and I get it. Get him. Get how you have to allow your hands to be occupied with something so your brain can digest what life throws at you. Each stitch I knit, I’m reminded of this subliminal message that I learned from witnessing his woodworking.

I accompanied my dad to Home Depot once. He needed more wood for whatever project he was working on. I needed a conversation with my freshly sober father. Although similar to how he didn’t plan on relapsing a few months later, I hadn’t planned on saying what I said in the car. But once I was sitting next to Dad, I realized I needed to discuss it.

“I think I drink too much.”

At that point, I wasn’t yet 21. But I could feel myself getting too drunk, which was leading to too much crazy chaos, which could lead to another suicide attempt.

I don’t remember what Dad said. That’s not the point. The point: I turned to my father for advice because, for once, I saw that maybe he had something to teach me other than car driving and sports skills.