There is this Carl Jung quote that I have been reflecting on each day:
That which we need the most will be found where we least want to look.
Over the course of this project, that’s what I have tried to accomplish each day. This week presented a few opportunities to go where I least wanted to look. I sent a few of the private letters that I have hesitated to send. I have many more to go. Part of the hesitation is fear, part is shame, and part is anxiety. The easiest task is the writing, the hard responsibility is the send or the publish. Because, then, the audience determines your fate.
Through the writing process, I tried to remove ego and minimize the fluff. For the private letters: only my counselor, my mentor, and my wife had the chance to read them. That presents the other problem. The counselor doesn’t judge, the mentor probably won’t, but my wife may — and that is wholly natural. And so, with each word written, an action ensues. And I can never account for each potential outcome. I just have to trust that when I share my lessons, my revelations, my gratitudes, or my regrets — that they are received with the benefit of the doubt and positive intent. Many of the private letters are represented by these initials:
If you have consumed this project from the beginning, you’ve read some difficult things but there is one person who has been there to witness it from the beginning.
No. 9: Lindsey Brooks Smith and I met in October 2005 and we became quick friends. At the time that we were introduced by my younger cousin (and her track teammate), I was riding high. At that point in my life, I was 22 and I’d never been in a battle that I couldn’t win. I had the outward appearance of arrogance, poise, and privilege about me and she was the first person who saw past the facade:
I played football in college to present toughness but I really just wanted to be a student. I lifted weights to present authority but I cried in every movie. I talked tough to seem impenetrable but I was fragile-spirited. I was this guy who went to a military academy to prove my value to myself, my country, and my father when — maybe — I should have been at Parson’s like my younger brothers.
This is the duality of Lindsey Smith and me. She was the first person who loved me enough to endure the conflict in me. In the letter to her, it tells the story of how we lost some of that understanding as 22 became 23, to no fault of her own. And how that compounded over an adulthood. I didn’t know what poor mental health was before 22 years old. And then, over night, I was dealing with a national scandal, being an outcast in society, the trauma of abuse while incarcerated, the political fallout, financial ruin, beginning again, and (oh) fatherhood. All other aspects of life gave way to proudly being a little girl’s dad.
In the context of Jung, it’s also interesting to think of Lindsey. When we made the decision to be parents, it wasn’t without personal consequence to either of us. All of the things that I needed to heal or resolve took a back seat to economic survival. All of the things that she needed in me were unmet — for years, we were in survival mode. So I didn’t take the time to look where I least wanted or to seek therapy or to pursue legal vindication. Instead, I climbed, I sprinted, and I ran away from my past. She climbed, she sprinted, and continued to exude her trademark virtue. In the process, I failed to see that she had many of the attributes that I should have valued all along.
No. 10: Have you ever been hated? This letter encapsulates a story of what it feels like to lose someone that you loved and then lose someone else that you love. The letter was published in honor of one of my best buddies and teammates, Eddie. It’s written to his mother “Sharon.”
He passed away of a suspected overdose, nearly 10 years ago, at the age of 29. I was in high school when I saw him buy his first Xanax bar or “z-bars” as he and his closest friends would call them. Now, 20 years later, we know just how difficult it is to endure the withdrawal from benzodiazepines.
Eddie was remarkable in every way: academically, socially, spiritually, and athletically. He was handsome, he had money, and the girls liked him. He would be on top of the world today.
Within weeks of graduating from Jesuit with me, he lost his college football career at Villanova to injury and the woman he loved. And to him, that was everything. He was never the same after that. And so he heavily leaned on prescription drugs. And as our 22nd and 23rd years became our 26th and 27th, it was clear that — like me — he never resolved his pain. I had a four year old girl (a reason to persist) and he did not.
This letter was written to his mother out of guilt and empathy. He was everything that I wasn’t. And the good parts of my life should have been the entirety of his own. This includes a story about his passing, the funeral that I couldn’t bring myself to attend, and the consequences the remain today. The letter ultimately represents my acceptance and my empathy for her. I can accept being hated if it makes it any easier on her.
Thank you for reading,
Web