This article is reprinted from Challenges.
In Recovery/ACOA

TWO LIVES
BY JASON R. OLDENBROEK

While growing up and into my adult years, I’ve felt as though there were two separate story lines being developed. There was the person others saw, the person who if prompted by intrigue could master anything. Then there was the person who felt no need to put into life the work necessary for building a life more healthy than ever dreamed.

Wanting to make positive choices, based on the need for greatness and prosperity, I chose the easier way--or so I thought. Being brought up by my father, an affluent business person as well as a chronic alcoholic, it wasn’t hard for me to develop two sides of life.

Truly believing what I’d been exposed to was the norm, I set out into my adulthood living according to what I’d learned--”Do as I say, not as I do.” I never could understand the confusion nor where it came from. All I knew was this is my life and I needed to live it.

I’ve shared with others about the pain of growing up with an alcoholic parent, the insanity that goes along with it, as well as the coping behaviors one needs to learn (by trial and error) to survive the ordeals faced on a regular basis. I led a double life. On one side, I had a father whom I loved dearly and whose accomplish-ments I admired. He wanted to see his child grow and fulfill the wish of every parent--to be acceptable, responsible, and productive, fitting into a world where you are recognized by what you excel in, usually your job, and the trappings that come with it--financial status and monetary accomplishments. My father was perceived as having achieved it all, a person living “the norm.” Whether is was business, building, dress, or automotive, he had the ability to understand and overcome any problem he would encounter in his material world. For his zest in life, I owe him a great deal. Through him I learned, “For every problem, somewhere there is an answer, if you take the time to look for it.” And also, “In order to learn, you must first ask the question, but more important, listen to the answer and put it into action.”

Measured by his material accomplishments, my father’s material life was exemplary. His knowledge of working parts and organization principles were outstanding. His ability to work with his hands was, and still is, something that I envy and admire. If something needed to work better, he could do it. If it needed to be built, he could build it, and if it needed to be fixed, it was only a matter of time before it was fixed. To me he was a genius whom I loved, admired, and trusted--in these respects.

It was the other side of him that I feared. Although he was all the good things I have spoken of, there was one thing he could not understand or fix, something that I believe he could not see. And that was the disease he carried for many years called alcoholism. I found it hard to understand how I could love someone so much but yet hate them in the balance. On one side there was the man who could teach the world, yet on the other, one who could destroy it in a heartbeat. It was not until I came into recovery that I learned to understand the things that had eluded me for so many years. This was accomplished because I could see myself as I really am and by learning to understand my disease. My disease carries many behaviors and actions that I learned as a child and some I developed in order to survive in my world as I created it. Rationalization, manipulation, justification, lies, theft, belittling, and an extreme need to cover up any and all emotions that society deems unacceptable for a “man” to display, are just a few. For years I hated the man who practiced these same behaviors within his disease. I had to hate myself for things that I allowed myself to do--I had to because I had allowed myself to become just like him, in some ways worse.

Through recovery I have learned that I have choices--either continue to live in the disease or surrender and learn to live around it. Because the disease never goes away, I needed to find the ways not to let it rule my life. Through counseling and meetings I have learned not to hate myself for the things that I am responsible for, as my disease dominated me life, but one question has remained: Can I hate the man who did the same when I was a child?

I made a list of who I am--loving, hard working, giving, honest, sincere (most of which I had let my disease cover up) and compared it to the list I started when first dealing with my disease. From these lists I found that there is a big difference between who I am and what my disease wants me to believe I am. Generally, everybody is made up of the same emotional structure. We try to cover up and hide those things that society deems inappropriate. Some, such as myself, go to great lengths to ensure this facade. That’s when my disease travels in warp drive. Can I hate the man or should I acknowledge his disease? An old timer in recovery once asked me, “Can I hate someone who is lying on the couch with the flu?” With all the puking and gripes, lying on the couch, trashing the bathroom, I found it easy to say, “Yes.” After some consideration I found that it was not the person I would hate but the sickness that they carried. Although this example has some similarities to my life’s scenario, there are a couple of big differences.

One, a person with the flu can usually tell when they are sick. Second, they usually work at trying to get well. One thing that a person with flu and an alcoholic have in common is that others come to dislike someone who continues to make themselves more sick when there are ways to become more healthy. Although the flu has physical symptoms easy to detect, the symptoms of my disease are not so easy for me to see. Even when those who truly cared about me could see my sickness, it wasn’t until I found recovery that I could understand their view on what it was I was missing.

Can I hate the man who could not see his disease? Is it the man I hated, or did I hate his disease?

As I have said, I loved the man. I have learned to get by my hate for my disease. Today I believe he deserves the same..

Written in memory of my father, William E. Oldenbroek. Died August 9, 1975. “May God hold you in His arms. Please forgive me for the hell I have put you in, in my mind.”

© Copyright R. Jason Oldenbroek, editor and publisher of LIVING LARGE magazine, P O Box 140634, Grand Rapids, MI 49514-0834.