Sex, Love, and Children: How Fatherhood Changed My Life

fatherhood-picMy wife, Carlin, and I have five children. I brought two into the marriage and she brought three. We fell in love with each other and the children were a bonus. Over the years they have brought us heart-ache and joy and continue to teach us lessons about life, love, and transformation.

The birth of my first child changed my life. My wife and I had practiced the Lamaze breathing techniques and had taken the birthing classes together. I wanted to be a great father, but I was afraid I’d screw things up. My wife wanted me to be in the delivery room with her so I could experience the beauty and wonder of childbirth. The idea sounded good and all our friends were doing it. But still, I worried. I passed out once when I had my teeth cleaned (I wasn’t good with pain) and wondered whether I could deal with my wife’s pain and still remain on my feet.

My only hope was that we were told that I may or may not be allowed in the delivery room at Kaiser Hospital. The labor was a long one and my wife practiced breathing and I did my best to coach her and give her chips of ice to wet her dry lips. By the time we heard, “Let’s get her into the delivery room” I wanted to go all the way. But I was told I needed to wait in the waiting room and they’d let me know when I could see the baby.

I was both relieved and disappointed. By then I didn’t think I’d pass out and I wanted to be with my wife and see our new born child, but being a good Jewish boy I followed doctor’s orders and walked out to the waiting room. But I didn’t make it through the doors. “God damn it, I’m not going to be some kind of waiting room father.” I was startled by my own thoughts. It was almost like the calling of my unborn child wanting me to be with him and his mother as he entered the world.

I pushed my way through the delivery room doors and took my place beside my wife. There was no question of leaving if asked, and it must have been clear that there would be a lot more disruption if they tried to force me to leave than there would be if I stayed. Shortly thereafter, our son was born and they handed him to me. As I looked down at him, I made a vow that I would be a different kind of father than my father had been able to be for me and I would do everything I could to create a world where men were fully involved with their families. [Read more…]

Wounded Fathers, Wounded Sons: The Legacy From Our Past

15594140256_45522894ba_zSummer is often a time of fun and family frolic. We remember our fathers and if we’re fortunate to have children, we feel the blessings of being a Dad. But for many of us this is a time when old wounds and disappointments surface. We may put on our happy face and enjoy the family fun, but inside we long to heal the disappointments and disconnections from our past.

When I was a young boy I remember my father having days of great cheer, expansive moods, and fun in the sun. I have a clear picture of riding on his shoulders, holding on to his big ears and laughing uncontrollably as we played horsey in the park close to our home in the San Fernando Valley. But I also remember his dark moods when he became irritable and angry one minute, then somber and depressed the next. This was long before anyone had heard about manic-depression or bipolar illness.

After he was committed to a Mental Hospital, following a suicide attempt, I did my best to understand what happened to him and how it might impact my own life. Like most children who grow up with parents who are suffering from depression or other similar problems, I was deeply impacted by my father’s wounds, but tried to block it out.

I heard stories that he had suffered a “nervous breakdown” because he was unable to make a living at his chosen profession as an actor and writer. I was told he became increasingly depressed because he couldn’t support his family. As an only child, I assumed that the family he couldn’t support was me, and that somehow I was responsible for his breakdown. It didn’t occur to me that he had a long history of disordered emotions, long before I was born.

In the world of children, our parents are Gods and if somehow we do something to bring them down we must be powerful Devils. I never talked to my mother about my feelings and fears and she seemed to be just as happy to push my father’s breakdown into the background of our lives and get on with the day-to-day necessities of making a living now that my father was no longer with us. [Read more…]

Healing the Father Wound: It’s Never Too Late

2797936422_4fc7547a3b_zMany of us have been wounded by our father’s lives. For some we experienced abuse growing up.  For others we dealt with neglect. Many of us were abandoned physically or emotionally. For most of us, we wanted a more loving, connected father than we experienced. Many of our fathers died too soon.

The first wound occurred for me when I was five years old. My father, a writer like me, was having great difficulty making a living during tough economic times. He wrote in his journal:

“Your flesh crawls, your scalp wrinkles when you look around and see good writers, established writers with credits a block long, unable to sell, unable to find work. Yes, it’s enough to make anyone blanch, turn pale and sicken.

            Yes, on a Sunday morning in early November, my hope and my life stream are both running desperately low, so low, so stagnant, that I hold my breath in fear, believing that the dark, blank curtain was about to descend.”

Four days after that journal entry, he tried to commit suicide. Like most young children, I didn’t understand the wounding that made him feel his only option was to end it all. I knew he felt shame and deep sadness that he wasn’t able to support his family the way he wanted to and he blamed himself. I learned a similar lesson. I blamed myself for him wanting to leave. “I must be a burden on him,” I thought. “If it weren’t for the pressure of supporting a family, he would be O.K.” Deep down inside, I thought there was something terribly wrong with me. “Why doesn’t he love me?” I wondered. “What’s the matter with me that he wants to get away from me?” He was 42 years old and I was 5.  The wounds didn’t end there.

Send Him to the “Nuthouse”

Following my father’s suicide attempt he was committed to Camarillo State Mental Hospital. Although I had friends who had fathers who were “a bit strange” or “different,” I didn’t know anyone whose father was in a “nuthouse.” We all shared the common view that anyone who would try and kill himself must be crazy. And anyone who was “sent away” must be really crazy. [Read more…]

Eight Little Known Secrets About Being a Man

Secrets of being a manIt isn’t easy being a man (or a woman) these days. Roles are changing. The world is changing. It can feel like the very foundation of who we are has been built on an earthquake fault.  Just when we think we can walk around safely, the ground begins to move and we are knocked off our feet.

My parents tell the story of my circumcision (one of the many hazards of being male, and still a hazard for many women in the world). My father was behind me as they spread my new-born legs and cut away my foreskin. It was supposed to me a ceremony of celebration of manhood. Not for me and not for babies who are abused in that way. I let out a scream and arched a stream of urine over my little head, which hit my father in the eyes.

I’ve been fighting assaults to our humanity ever since. Here are a few things about being a man that I’ve learned along the way:

  1. Sex Matters: Males and Females Are Different in Every Cell of Our Bodies

According to Marianne J. Legato, M.D., Founder of The Center for Gender Specific Medicine, Everywhere we look, the two sexes are startlingly and unexpectedly different not only in their internal function but in the way they experience illness.” This difference goes right down to the cells in our bodies. David C. Page, M.D., professor of biology at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) says, “There are 10 trillion cells in human body and every one of them is sex specific.”  [Read more…]

Taking on My Father’s Wound

Mens health helping handMy involvement helping men and their families began for me on June 12, 1965 when my father came to my college graduation, an encounter I described in Part 1. Although I hadn’t seen him since I was a child I recognized him immediately. I went looking for him when I came off the stage, but by then he had disappeared. A letter from an uncle told me my father was living under an assumed name in Los Angeles and I went looking for him that summer.

When I found him I was relieved, but also frightened. He had been committed to a mental hospital following his suicide attempt when I was five years old. My uncle had taken me to Camarillo State Hospital to visit him and I dutifully went weekly, though the mental hospital and the patients terrified me. Even as a child, I felt that my father’s “break down” was somehow my fault and that it was my duty to try and help him.

The family story was that my father had broken down under the pressure of trying to support his family when he was unable to find work. In my child mind I believed that if I hadn’t been born he wouldn’t have felt the pressure and he wouldn’t have broken down. I didn’t understand that his depression and bipolar disorder had little to do with supporting me and a lot to do with his own family history and childhood neglect.

That summer I had the great joy of being with my father for the first time as a young adult. I got to know him directly, rather than through the distorted lens of my mother’s view of him. At the time he was living in Santa Monica, California, and he introduced me to many of his friends along the board walk in that beach town. Growing up I had viewed him as a shadow figure who was “mentally unbalanced.” I felt ashamed to have a father who was so weird. [Read more…]

Fathers, Anxiety, and Depression: Can Father’s Day Begin a Day of Healing for Fathers and Sons?

3551019373_135ae07155_zI grew up with a depressed father and became a depressed son. My father took an overdose of sleeping pills when I was five years old, following years feeling anxious and depressed because he couldn’t make a living as a writer and actor. He didn’t die, but I lost his presence growing up. I grew up worried that what happened to him would happen to me. It took me many years to address my own depression and many more before I reached out for help. For too many men, we suffer in silence, feeling that somehow we should handle our problems ourselves.

Father’s day is a mixed blessing for me. I feel great joy to be alive and to have children and grandchildren I love. I also feel a great loss that my father left so early in my life and I never really got to know him. I also feel down because Mother’s Day always seems like such a big deal in the world, but Father’s Day seems like a minor event. Everyone reaches out to Mom, but Dad’s often are an afterthought, or we feel the ambivalence of a father who wasn’t totally present.

According to the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), close to 1 in 10 American men suffers from depression or anxiety, but fewer than half get treatment, a new survey reveals. The nationwide poll of more than 21,000 men also found that among younger males, blacks and Hispanics are less likely than whites to report mental health symptoms. And when they do acknowledge psychiatric troubles, they are less likely to seek professional help than whites, according to the CDC.

“We suspect that there are several social and cultural pressures that lead black and Hispanic men to be less likely than white men to seek mental health treatments,” said report lead author Stephen Blumberg, an associate director for science with the CDC’s National Center for Health Statistics (NCHS).

“These pressures, which include ideas about masculinity and the stigma of mental illness, may be more pronounced for men of color,” he said. “And these same forces may lead men of color to be more likely to deny or hide feelings of anxiety or depression.” If this is true, Blumberg added, “then the (racial) disparities we observed could be even greater.” [Read more…]

My Father’s Stay at God’s Hotel: A Slow-Medicine Approach to Healing Mental Illness

Gods HotelIt’s been a long journey to come to peace with my father’s life and how it has impacted my own.  I was born on December 21, 1943 in New York City.  My parents had tried to conceive for many years, but had been unsuccessful.  They finally were successful when my father was 37 and my mother was 35 following a procedure where my father’s sperm was injected mother, a radical approach back then.

The vague memories I have of my early life were positive.  One that sticks in my mind is a memory of being 3 or 4 sitting on my father’s shoulders, laughing wildly as he rode me around the small park in Encino, California, not far from our house in Sherman Oaks.  The San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles was beautiful in those early years of my memory with citrus groves as far as the eye could see.

But other memories were not so positive.  I have flashes of my father’s anger, times when he was irritable, angry, and withdrawn, and periods when he would disappear for days at a time.  I learned later than he had become increasingly depressed and would have been diagnosed as bipolar, if that diagnosis had existed at the time. He couldn’t find work in his chosen field as an actor, author, and playwright.

When I was five years old, my father tried to take his own life.  Although he survived physically our lives were never the same.  I grew up wondering what happened to my father and whether it would happen to me.  When I became a father I made a vow to my son, Jemal, when I held him moments after his birth.  I told him that I would be a different kind of father than my father was able to be for me and I would do everything to create a different kind of world where the wounds of our fathers were healed and children could grow up free of the pain suffered by their parents. [Read more…]

7 Tips For Becoming a Better Father

Regardless of the kind of fathering we had growing up, all of us would like to be really good fathers to our children.  I didn’t have great fathering growing up.  My Dad tried to commit suicide when I was 5 years old.  I was raised by my mother and had a stepfather who I loved, but who came and went and finally left when I was in junior high.

I married young and had two children.  After 10 years of marriage, my wife and I split up.  Fortunately I met a great woman and remarried.  She had three children and we raised our two youngest kids together.  I’ll be 70 this year and our children range in age from 37 to 55 and we have 14 grandchildren.  If I’ve learned to be a good father over the years, I’ve learned from my wife and from our children.  Here are the things we’ve found to be helpful around how to be a better father. [Read more…]

It’s Never Too Late to Heal the Father Wound: A 40 Year Journey


Many of us have been wounded by our fathers.  For some we experienced abuse growing up.  For others we dealt with neglect.  For most of us, our fathers were absent physically or emotionally more than we would have liked.  Many of our fathers died too soon.

The first wound occurred for me when I was five years old.  My father, a writer like me, was having great difficulty making a living during tough economic times.  He wrote in his journal:

Your flesh crawls, your scalp wrinkles when you look around and see good writers, established writers with credits a block long, unable to sell, unable to find work.  Yes, it’s enough to make anyone blanch, turn pale and sicken.

Yes, on a Sunday morning in early November, my hope and my life stream are both running desperately low, so low, so stagnant, that I hold my breath in fear, believing that the dark, blank curtain was about to descend.

Four days after that journal entry, he tried to commit suicide.  The first wound occurred when I learned he’d wanted to die.  “Why doesn’t he love me?” I thought. “Why does he want to get away from me?”  I didn’t understand.  He was 42 years old and I was 5.  The wounds didn’t end there.

Camarillo State Hospital

My uncle Harry visited my father every Sunday and it was my job to accompany him.  It was a two hour drive from our house in Los Angeles to the hospital outside of Oxnard.  I knew we were getting close when we drove between a huge stand of eucalyptus trees that lined the road.  The closer we got the more terrified I became.  I wanted to see my father, but the other “inmates” were strange, sitting alone rocking or talking to themselves.  Remember this was 1948 and a mental hospital wasn’t a great place to be.

I did my best to cheer my father up, but he was usually quiet, and interacted very little with me.  Driving back my Uncle would tell me how glad my father was to see me and how much I helped him by being there.  I hated going, but even then I was a “good little boy” and thought it was duty to be strong and do what I was told.

I went to Camarillo every weekend for a year until it became evident that my father didn’t know who I was.  He’d look right through me and my Uncle would have to remind him that I was his son.  I finally was allowed to stop going and I felt I was given a reprieve from the weekly wounding.

He’ll Never Leave.  He’ll Die Here 

The doctors told my mother that he’d never leave the hospital.  His mental illness hadn’t improved and she could accept the fact that he needed to be taken care of the rest of his life.  I started having nightmares about going crazy and being locked up for the rest of my life with my father.  I didn’t tell anyone about the horrible dreams.

In school, particularly around holidays, like Father’s day, other kids would ask about my father.  At first I would tell them he was in the hospital.  But I was stymied when they wanted to know when he was getting out.  I finally told them he was in a mental hospital and I didn’t know when he was getting out.  I felt very ashamed to have a “crazy” father and the kids taunted me endlessly.  When I changed schools in the third grade, I told anyone who asked that “my father is dead.”

But he wasn’t dead and we got a call from my Uncle one night telling us that my father had escaped from the hospital and police were out looking for him.  My mother was terrified that he was coming to get me and so she sent me to live with neighbors.  I lived there for a couple of weeks.  And one day there was a knock on the door.  It was my father.  I hid under the bed and he finally went away.  I knew he was out there somewhere and my mother continued to tell me to be careful.  “There’s no telling what your father might do.”  But he didn’t do anything.  He disappeared.  We never heard from him and gradually I concluded that he probably was dead.

A Ghost Attends My College Graduation

I graduated from U.C. Santa Barbara and had been accepted to U.C. San Francisco Medical School in the fall.  I felt on top of the world.  As I walked across the stage to shake hands and get my diploma, my hand turned to ice.  I saw someone in the audience that reminded me of my father.  It was a momentary glance and then he turned away.  I was shaken to my core, but I didn’t tell anyone.  A day later I got a letter in the mail from my uncle.  He said he had run into my father by accident in Los Angeles and had given him the information about my college graduation.  “He seemed OK,” my uncle wrote, “and he said he wanted to see you.”  He also left his contact information in Los Angeles.  “He goes under the name of Tom Roberts gave me a number where you can reach him.”

After I returned home for the summer, I called him at the number I had been given and we set up a meeting.  I had a jumbled mixture of feelings.  I longed for the father I had never known.  I was afraid of his “craziness.”  I felt I should help him.  The first meeting went pretty well.  He told me that he was a street puppeteer and I saw how much joy he brought putting his shows on around his neighborhood in Ocean Beach.  But he still had an edge of anger, weirdness, and unpredictability.

I visited a number of times, but by the end of the summer he seemed to be becoming more and more agitated.  I didn’t know what to make of him and I’m sure, unconsciously, I was going to medical school to find out what was wrong with him and how he could be fixed.  I had planned a trip to Mexico before I began Medical School in the fall and my father suggested we spend a few days in San Diego before I took the bus on to Mexico City.  Our time started off OK.  He showed me parts of San Diego he liked, bought me a book of letters from Theo Van Gogh to his brother Vincent, and we went out for our last dinner before my planned departure in the morning.  But when I got ready to go the next day, he became extremely agitated and angry and forbade me to leave.  “You’re my son and you have to stay and take care of your father.”  I was dumb struck.  I couldn’t believe what he was telling me.  As I boarded the bus he screamed after me, “You’ll never be a good doctor, if you can’t even take care of your own father.”

Brief Encounters of the Wounding Kind 

I headed for Mexico, badly shaken, but glad to get away from this “crazy man.”  I wondered where the gentle, supportive father I was dreaming of having had gone.  I had a great summer and started Medical School in the fall at U.C. San Francisco.  I lasted less than a semester.  I dropped out and enrolled at U.C. Berkeley in the school of Social Welfare.  I took many years to deal with the curse hurled at me by my father.  It took even longer to realize that he was probably right.  Medicine wasn’t for me, but not because I wouldn’t take care of my father, but because I had to learn about taking care of myself.

He and I ran into each other unexpectedly four more times over the next fifteen years.  Each time we’d spend a few days together and I thought maybe we would be able to have a real adult-to-adult, father-and-son, relationship.  But each time it would end the same way.  He would make some demand that I wouldn’t meet and he would scream at me, “You’re no son of mine.  I disown you.  Get out of my sight.”  I had armored myself to the blows and they didn’t hurt as much, but they still struck home.

The Last Wound and the Courage to Heal 

I hadn’t seen nor heard from him in over five years.  When my first book, Inside Out:  Becoming My Own Man, came out, it developed a wide-spread readership.  I wrote about my father, his inner demons, and our wounding relationship.  I got an email out of the blue:  “I read your book and was very touched by what you said about your father and your relationship with him.  I work at Laguna Honda Hospital in San Francisco and I’m a nurse on the ward where your father lives.  I think he’d like to make contact with you.”

I wrote back and said, I wasn’t so sure, given our history.  But I wrote a letter to my father.  For the first time I told him the truth and didn’t hold back my feelings:

Dear Dad,

    I just learned that you are in the hospital and I’d like to come visit you.  But things have to change.  I’m tired of being blamed for your pain and I’m through with your angry outbursts when I don’t do what you want me to do.  It was you who left me, remember?  I was five yours old.  All I’ve ever done was to try to love you and all you’ve ever done is reject me over and over.  You are my father, but this is the last time I’m reaching out to you.  I’m the only one in the family who makes any attempt to get through to you.  If you keep acting like this, you’re going to end up a lonely old man.  I’m through.  It’s up to you.

I figured that would be the end of things for us.  At least I could say I had done my best to connect with my father.  But I’d done what I could do.  I was totally surprised when I got a letter back and even more surprised with what it said.

Dear Jed,

     No one has ever talked to me like that in my life.   And you’re right.  I have blamed you, the family, everyone for my own unhappiness. And I don’t want to do that anymore.  I do want to see you and I promise to you that I will treat you well.  Please give me another chance.

The End and the Beginning 

I did go and see him and he did treat me well.  The only exceptions were letters I would get which were written at 4 AM (he’d always but on the date and the time).  He was depressed and would chastise me for having plenty of time to travel all over the world, but didn’t seem to have much time for your Dad.  I didn’t get many of those.  And they’d usually be followed by a much more positive letter written in the light of day.  As a mid-life man I now understood something about the weariness, depression, and sadness that can hit us when we’re awake into the wee hours of the morning.

We spent 10 years together until he died at 89.  He met my wife and children and put on puppet shows for them.  He even came to a family reunion was able to heal a lot of wounds with his brothers and sisters.  I would visit him at his little apartment in the Tenderloin District.   I still remember our last walk together.  The new San Francisco library had just opened and he wanted to leave a flower on the steps to thank all those who had helped bring the library into being.

It was a long walk and we took it one slow step at a time.  He laid his flower on the steps and we sat on a bench to rest.  Finally, he looked me in the eye, gave me a slow smile, and told me “It’s time to go home.”  A week later he died.

At a gathering of friends and family I told the assembled group:  “By the standards of society, my father was not a success.  He didn’t make a lot of money.  He was labeled as mentally ill.  He liked to live among people that society pretends do not exist.”  Someone read one of his last poems, “Because of you,” said one, old madness has become new meaning.  Because of you, my tongue is no longer lead.”

Happy Father’s Day.  May all our souls heal from our father wounds.  It’s never too late.

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