Pictures and memories are what I hold onto of the man who was, and is, my father. Memories of his voice, his smell, pictures of his smile, and the home we used to share so many years ago. The time passes, but I still will forever be a daddy’s girl.

I would like you to picture a man- medium build, not too short or too tall, middle aged with a rounded middle, white and somehow forever tanned, short straight brown hair, green eyes, a strong nose- you got it? Now add a black v-neck tee, a black leather coat, a thin gold necklace, blue jeans, and the pièce de résistance… cowboy boots, but tucked under the pant leg. This is how I best remember my dad.

My dad was raised in a small little shack in the far countryside. His mother immigrated from Finland at the ripe young age of 19, pushed by her parents to seek a better life. She was alone. His dad was also Finnish, but born in Canada to immigrants… and deaf. The story was that he became deaf after a bad fever coming back from army duties with some young men celebrating on the train. When he and my grandma met, they would write notes to each other until she learned to use sign language.

While not dwelling on his past too much, my dad grew up in a troubled home. His own dad had come from a troubled home himself, a very common story. My grandma, or as I call her “mummu”, says her husband was not a very nice man. He would become violent, and was mentally unwell. At some point he drove to the US, seeking rights to the Atomic Bomb, which he claimed was actually invented by him.

I wanted to include this little detail because it’ll tie in later when you understand his past.

Fast forward, this young man strikes out on his own, tastes marriage and fatherhood for this first time and loses it. A brief modelling career, a carpenter, a father of two more children, and now a second divorce.

While never taking claim to my older sister from his previous marriage, my dad does something curious the second time around. He fights and wins. It is very rare for a father to gain sole custody of the children after a divorce, and yet that is what he did. Is it perhaps a sign of the kind of mother and past she had? Either way, we now have a bachelor and two little girls.

I’m not refined because my childhood and formative years were spent with my dad. We would have cake and pie for breakfast, Coca-Cola at any time of the day, we would play hide and seek in our clothes- we were wild. How would we hide in our clothes you ask? They were piled on the floor in our closet, with no real method to the madness- we lived in chaos. I didn’t understand cleanliness until much later.

I remember renting multiple homes in the country, we would play for hours outside, climbing the trees and crossing creeks, feeling the warm sun on our skin and the wind through our uncombed hair. We were free. We were happy.

My dad would do pony rides up the stairs with us on on his back, which I loved so much. Some times before bed he would sing “Love me tender”, a song that makes me cry to this day. All three of us were Elvis fans, we loved his films and music. My dad even frivolously bought us Elvis Barbies. They were fantastic, except being as wild as we were they were not kept in mint condition. We left them outside one night and our dog chewed them up.

He was so generous and too much so with us. Buying us beautiful clothes, these expensive gifts, even though we lived in simple rented homes he wanted us to have the best. Neither of my parents were good with money and later we would have neither the gifts nor the homes together. Just the memories.

My father had beautiful kind eyes. The kind of eyes I see when I watch a Robin Williams movie, full of life, safe and kind. He was loving, but he struggled as well. Unexpectedly, he would begin to pace the room frantically. His brows furrowed, his fists clenched, and his face beet red from a flush of blood and rage. I would sit silently and still waiting for the storm to pass until my dad would resume normal colour and we were safe again.

This would happen while in the car or truck driving. You can imagine the fear watching your father clench the wheel, and the fiery rage from these kind eyes. It was as if I watched the transformation from man to Hulk in real life. Where had my father gone?

After my father sustained a workplace injury things went downhill. We slowly downsized into smaller and smaller places, until we had no place at all. We were left with my mother, and those happy days were now gone.

I realize now looking back, my dad and mom would drink heavily together just like their own fathers until we were born. My dad stayed sober during these beautiful childhood years but struggled (struggles) with mental health (undiagnosed). I’ve come to my own conclusion that it is likely the same as his father dealt with. I do know that trauma (like my grandfather experienced), and drinking can encourage the illness but also it tends to run higher in the males in the family (a great relief to me, but something I watch for anxiously as my little brothers grow).

The same tender, kind eyed man would angrily talk about killing some woman he thought was after him with a machete, out of fear and imagination that these people were against him in some way. He would even have episodes verbally attacking my sister and I, and then he would come back later and apologize, lucid and sincere.

At twelve years old I was no longer able to live with my father, in his dilapidated home two doors down. When I was able to realize these episodes were not my dad but an undiagnosed mental health condition. It brought me peace and understanding, but he wasn’t going to seek help just at my own bidding. He has to want to.

Could this be partly why I am so interested in self discovery? Understanding the issues from my own dysfunctional upbringing from mental health, to addiction, has helped me understand my parents more. Also, finding studies on the children in these homes, and researching on my own mental health, helps to make the experiences I face less scary. There’s a reason, there’s help, and there’s others who understand.

Maybe you’re coming to a self discovery about your own upbringing or your health… Or you know someone who struggles, or has a difficult past… Learning more can help you to understand, and equip you with tools to help. I’ve seen people labeled as “bad” because of their mental health or upbringing, but really they could be struggling and not have the tools or awareness as to why or how to get help. In either case, that doesn’t mean that being hurt from someone who has one of these struggles is okay.

I hope my sharing can encourage your own conversations and awareness about these issues. If you or someone you love is struggling, don’t be shy to reach out for professional help. Wishing you a happy Tuesday, and thanks for sticking around.