The Days Are Long, the Years Are Short

In the last episode, we had just given birth to our second (of two) daughters, Adeline. To be perfectly honest, this time period is one of the fuzziest parts of my memory. Things with my parents were fairly tense, although we remained in contact. I was on at least 150mg of Zoloft for some period of time. My emotions were dull, I was putting on weight. Those of you who have had small children can probably relate to “helping” the kids finish the Mac n Cheese and hot dogs on a regular basis. Things at the lab were ok, but slipping (in retrospect). We had our biggest year right around when Addie was born and never did match that again. I lost Amy,  who was huge asset, at the office because she was staying home to be with the kids. I think she came in now and then, but I don’t remember. 

A year or so after moving the photo lab to 3,000sf over on Fulton & May in the West Loop our floor mates, a small ad agency, folded. We took over the whole 5,000sf. I continued working long hours, something I wish I hadn’t done. Live and learn. One night, likely around the winter of 2004, maybe 2005, I was back at work after going home for dinner. It was the busy season – we did at least 60% of our volume in the last 40% of the year – and the tables and carts were piled high with prints in need of cutting, coating, mounting, packaging and shipping. Business was solid and yet not growing. As I walked around the lab, I felt a small sense of pride. I had done it. I had manifested the distinctive vision of what I had set out to create. Here I was, running nearly a $1m/year business in a vintage loft in one of the city’s up and coming areas. We were doing high end work for portrait studios around the country, in addition to printing for the Chicago Cubs and White Sox. I had a great wife and two beautiful healthy daughters and we lived in a 100 year old house that had been completely renovated (except the outside – sorry Bonnie Brae neighbors!) I should have been full to overflowing. And yet…

In my mind’s eye, I can recall nearly the exact spot I was standing that night, when I had the thought, “This is great, but none of it matters, because my father still isn’t proud of me.” And right there, something broke. I can’t describe it really, owing to the fact that I was only vaguely in contact with my emotions at that stage. Some part of me, an important part, stopped caring. But God forbid disclose it; at least not overtly (much better to engage in a lot of passive aggressive behavior). I’m not sure I even shared the revelation with my therapist. But let’s back up and look at that thought for a minute, with today’s perspective. Let’s “reknow” it, shall we? First of all, how did I know my father wasn’t proud of me? I’m sure he was quite proud of me. He just never expressed it in a way that I heard it. I bet dollars to donuts, he bragged to his friends about my accomplishments. Hell, he may have even said it to me (but I don’t think so) and I just didn’t hear it. Second of all, what if he really wasn’t proud of me? At the end of the day, why does it matter? By the way, this is not a new story by any means. I’m not breaking any virgin ground here. Willy Shakes was scribing this tale with his quill pen 400 years ago. But to me, at that time, earning two things – money and my father’s love and respect were sine qua non for me. These were the engines that drove my being. The first one had just flamed out. It was the beginning of the end of the life I had wanted since I was a teenager.