Late-night conundrums.

It was early. Maybe 2 or 3 am.

I could hear yelling coming from the main floor of my parent’s house.

(What a surprise, but at this hour?)

I stumbled out of bed, mildly annoyed because I had a big game that coming day against a neighboring high school.

However, as the yells and thuds became more clear, the weight of the situation set in, and my heart started to race.

I picked up the pace and started shuffling down the stairs as quickly as I could, turned the corner, and discovered a standoff.

My dad, bless his struggling heart, was not feeling quite “himself.” Even though this side of “dad” had become more and more common in the last year or so, this was one of his worst nights.

I approached the situation angrily. My sisters, panicked, said something about how he hit someone and he wanted his guitar back but that mom said couldn’t give it to him.

Before I knew it, we were in a standoff. Dad’s back was to the glass doors and I stood maybe 10 feet off with the guitar by my side. Frantically, my dad slammed a kitchen chair against the glass door, shattering it and sending glass all over the kitchen floor.

My “Dad,” if I even dare call him that, proceeded to storm toward me.

He stopped inches from my face and yelled, “Give me my guitar, now!”

“No,” I confidently rebutted.

Before I knew what was happening he began to charge me. Fortunately, my football instinct (and a healthy dose of adrenaline) took over and I charged right back.

Luck was certainly on my side that night, as his “altered state” gave me a considerable advantage.

Instances such as these were a fairly regular occurrence in our home for a number of years. The kind of stuff no kid should have to see.

Another night, maybe a year later or so, there we were — back at it again.

Again, I responded to the sound of yelling and came shuffling down the stairs, only this time to relieve my younger sister from the duty of keeping a blade away from his throat.

Yes, this is real. And yes, my 13-year-old sister, bless her heart, was brave enough to do what she did.

Finally, when I released him, he stormed up the stairs, into the garage, and off to who knows where.

At the behest of my mother, I reluctantly followed him.

I chased him down the street, overwhelmed with emotion and fervently praying that the neighbors don’t wake up.

As I approached him, something took over me. I pulled him in tight and was immediately reduced to tears. The funny thing is, I wasn’t alone.

Through the sobs, I somehow found the strength to tell him, “I love you, dad.”

Only God knows why I would say such a thing, especially after all the pain he had caused us and the angst I carried in my chest because of him. Regardless, higher purposes were served that night. And for the first time, in a long time, I felt whole again.

The road didn’t end there. Not for a long time. But at least the burden I carried with me was lightened, if only for a brief moment.

In closing, I share this story because I finally realized that to truly engage properly with others', I would have to learn how to tell my own.

“All of these stories make me who I am. But to insist on only the negative stories is to flatten my experience and to overlook the many other stories that formed me. The single-story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.

I’ve always felt that it is impossible to engage properly with a place or a person without engaging with all of the stories of that place and that person. The consequence of the single story is this: It robs people of dignity. It makes our recognition of our equal humanity difficult. It emphasizes how we are different rather than how we are similar.” — Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

I hope that there is value in making this story known. And maybe, just maybe, it can give someone a sliver of hope. Maybe, just maybe, it can show someone that they do not have to be a victim of circumstance.

Re-entry into a relationship is possible, that I am confident.

Dear Mother, don’t hold any of this over your head. No one blames you. You are strong and you are so, so loved.

Thank you