Daddy Issues - Jay Schoenrade

Daddy Issues

By Jay Schoenrade

The smell coats my memories with a bitter tang of anger that resides in my mind when I think of him. I remember as a child, my dad would bring my brothers and me to the gas station—usually the 7-Eleven at the corner of 1171 and 2499. We’d run to the back of the store and fill our cups up to the brim with slurpees. We’d casually ignore our dad asking the cashier for his “special stuff.” It was a touchy subject for our family. No one mentioned it, acknowledged it, or confronted him. We’d pretend like it didn’t happen and my dad preferred that. For a while, he tried to hide his addiction from us. We were “too young’’ and we just “wouldn’t be able to understand,” he’d say. He bought lottery tickets and chocolate to cover the little maroon tins at the bottom of the bag. We knew there was more than chocolate there, but kept to the family rule. It kept the illusion of peace.

A few more years, and we’d still go to the gas station. He always felt the need to take one of us. He’d enter one of our rooms and ask if we wanted to go with him. It was always late at night, so we knew it wasn’t a road trip. It was the gas station. Even though I hated it—I hated how my dad acted, I hated how it was the unspoken demon of the house, I hated how my parents argued behind closed doors because of it, and I hated the smell that lurks through the halls—it was never really an offer to begin with. I couldn’t refuse going with him. If we refused to go he’d yell, “Fine, don’t ever ask me for anything ever again. I always do things for you, but you obviously don’t even have enough time to run a quick errand with me.” He would slam the door and move on to ask the next kid. I always felt guilty when I declined the offer, but eventually the guilt tripping became too much. I just stopped refusing.

After years of my parents fighting and thousands of wasted dollars, he tried to break his habit, but his anger exploded. Undeserved wrath ripped through anyone or anything unfortunate enough to cross his path. Ricocheting from one thing to the next, the fiery fury that flared up was untouched. His voice booms off the walls. We learned to make ourselves disappear. With time, we learned how to tell his mood by his footsteps. Weighted, rapid, and iiratical, it was a sign to make a run for the closet or duck under the bed. Heavy, rhythmic footsteps implied it was safe to stay out, but still out of sight.

At school, Red ribbon week always had more significance to me. I’d already learned about the addictiveness of drugs from my dad. I’d already learned how it can fundamentally change a person. So, some years, it felt like a burden, empty words teachers were forced by the curriculum to shove down kids throats. But, other years, it reignited childhood emotions and memories. In high school, when friends and other students started falling down the path of drugs, starting with vapes or pills—anything—it drove me crazy. I didn’t want any more of it in my life. I didn’t want to watch my friends fall down the path that caused me so much pain already. I started leaving people. I held it as a value to never be involved with the drugs or the people that did them. If it meant I’d lose some of my closest friends, I lost them. The fear of rapid footsteps was overwhelming. I learned not to risk it.

Sometimes the lessons kids learn are lessons they weren’t really taught. I learned from my parent’s experiences and mistakes. Both good and bad lessons. It taught me what I want to pass down to my kids and what I will do differently. I learned a lot from my parents, but the messages I can’t remember being taught are the ones that are the most valuable to me.

Photo by Chole McNeil