In graduate school, psychology students are taught that one of the cardinal rules of good therapy practice is to conceal all but the most mundane information about ourselves from our patients. I don’t deny that there’s a laundry list of really good reasons to adhere to this guideline. It’s not important that I dive into all these rationales here, but suffice it to say that the upcoming publication of my memoir Daddy largely makes this a moot point.
The book centers on the central tragedy of my life—when I was 28, my father shot and killed my mother and then committed suicide. I happened to be the only other person in the house when it happened. Thankfully, I didn’t directly witness the shootings. My father didn’t leave a note and none of us knew exactly why he did it or why he chose that particular moment. As a result, I developed what I would only come to later identify as PTSD.
It wasn’t as though I was the picture of mental health when it happened. At the time, I was still casting about in life, trying to find direction. I’d struggled over my sexuality and relied way too much on drugs and alcohol to cope with depression and my father’s emotional abuse. The AIDS crisis was in full bloom and I was in the process of losing two of my closest friends.
After my parents’ deaths, these issues metastasized into a state of dysfunction that paralyzed me for many years. To make a long story short, I finally got my act together. It would take a great deal of perseverance and luck to achieve the hallmarks of a fulfilling life—a stable, seventeen-year relationship, a remarkable 11-year-old daughter, and a challenging, satisfying career.
Much of Daddy involves how I got from there to here, but for me, the most surprising part of this project was my work piecing together my father’s motives and life experience. A veteran of some of the most fierce fighting during WWII, my father suffered from PTSD thirty-five years before it was even given a name—much less effective treatment. As part of my research for the book, I learned everything I could about trauma and PTSD. I also came to appreciate how enduring systems of social oppression generate and perpetuate individual and collective trauma, setting the stage for the roles my parents would play in life and death.
A Change of Pace
For the past several years, I’ve focused my work on Men’s health—learning about a broad range of issues facing men both straight and gay. These relationships have also provided an opportunity for growth—both personally and professionally—helping to heal many old wounds associated with people of my gender.
To be sure, issues of trauma regularly surfaced in these treatments. However, given my extensive research into trauma for the book, my own experience with PTSD, and my family’s history, I now embrace trauma in all people—men, women, and those who identify as transgender and gender non-binary—as the focus of my professional work.
I’d love to hear your story.