A love letter to my sons and an apology to everybody else

A few years ago, I diligently scraped my birthdate from the internet. Birthday wishes from strangers have a paradoxical way of reminding us of our terminal loneliness. I turned 46 this month. My brother left me a voicemail, which I still have to return. My mother texted, “Bon anniversaire,” and I texted her back a picture of the twins. My friend Jon had cookies delivered.

Later that night, Tani stayed in my room at the Cosmos Club. He had fallen out with my boisterous godson and asked me to pick him up.

In the short ride, he had an unusually stern look. Lukas had told him, “I don’t want to be friends anymore,” one too many times that week. I assured him that it would be over tomorrow, that this is what children say to each other, and that my godson loves him. We raided the odd M&M dispenser by the dining room. He asked to watch “Dunkirk”. Once a handful of British soldiers painfully made it across the channel, probably only to die four years later on very similar beaches, Tani fell asleep. Soothed, hopefully, by the secure knowledge that his fathers’ love is irrevocable and unconditional, that well-intentioned adults are trying to stop the bloody wards in Ukraine and Gaza that distress him, and that our world is full of wonders made especially for him.

I also felt calmer that night. Maybe I inadvertently convinced myself, too, that there would be a redo in the morning. I was happy my son was there. Anyone who says they’d rather be alone on their birthday is not telling the whole story.

I have nothing to teach my kids about human connections. By now, they understand that. They joke about the many characters who entered our lives only to disappear abruptly months or years later without me attempting to come up with an explanation. They mention a boy’s cute dog they remember, the time a boyfriend took them skating, or the vegan guy they did not like, and I probably liked too much. I laugh with them, but I don’t like to think about it. They never ask, “Why haven’t we seen X in such a long time?”. Thankfully, the pandemic cut my losses. There was no need to pretend anymore, and I could content myself by mimicking human connection.

The twins and my grandmother showed me what predictable love felt like. Strangely, I have to let that go, too, now. My grandmother passed away, and I want the twins to be free to hate me, even if only temporarily, knowing it won’t affect my love for them.

I suffered from a lifelong physical allergy to human connection. Some cannot process dairy. I could not process the feelings generated by human interaction. Attachment is really what I had an issue with. I could never bear it when love or approval were withdrawn, even temporarily. “Cannot bear” probably sounds trite and self-indulgent. After all, nobody likes experiencing silent treatment from their partner, arguing with a colleague, or seeing a friendship whither. I obviously did not break in hives, either. But the pain was always disproportionate, unmanageable, all-encompassing—eventually, the fear of the pain to come felt unbearable, too. Often, I retaliated because I did not know better.

It’s an inconvenient condition: in this world, there is nothing else to do but love and be loved.

I wish I had understood my limitations earlier, articulated them, and not hurt people along the way. In midlife, it suddenly becomes easier to forgive others and more challenging to forgive oneself. Writing this, I still feel some compassion for myself. I did not know, but I was just not capable of connecting.

When I was the twins’ age and my childhood friendships encountered minor hurdles, it always felt like death. And instead of healing, these tiny wounds just accumulated inexplicably. They took more and more room while all the other lights gradually turned off. By twenty-five years old, I was already living in total darkness. So, I started behaving erratically, and, because it’s America, I ended up medicated—bourbon first, then anti-depressants, benzodiazepines, and eventually everything else.

Once, a New York gay man told me of a pandemic homeless hotel next to his luxury condo, “I see a lot of people who made bad choices,” and I thought, “strange, I see a lot of grown children who score high on the ACEs quiz.” You have to be blind and very unaware not to see that. Now, that’s a real political question. When Pope Francis talks about “grave violations of the dignity of the woman and the child,” this is what I think about first, not surrogacy. By thirty-three, I predictably landed in rehab.

What I could never have predicted, though, was the twins’ birth. I wasn’t planning to be in the delivery room when they were born — true story. The doctor entered the waiting room where I was reading and told me I was welcome. I felt awkward telling him I did not want to. Of course, I am glad I followed him. The nurses were laughing, I think because each baby was a tiny copy of one father. Then, they placed a baby on my chest.

The twins were always to be my ex’s children. I only wanted for him to continue to love me, still unaware of the poison pill in our relationship. I decided to have children impulsively, and I broke up with him impulsively a year or so after for the same reason: I could not bear losing him.

Of course, I led my entire life like that. Not just my love life. My friendships. In my relationships at work. When I felt unloved or betrayed, I often found myself with no other choice than to retaliate and burn the house to the ground. It saved me from drowning. Writing this, I am not sure what else I could have done. Even in sobriety, that cycle never really stopped until I gave up.

If I were a bird

But I’m just a snake

And my life is on the ground

My stomach is on the stones

Where I will make my grave

I’m just a snake

And from wall to wall

From meadow to meadow

I perpetuate my massacres

Besides, I eat dove eggs

The last time I watched “Dunkirk,” the twins were away, and I was alone at home. When the boats came to rescue the stranded Brits, I started crying.

The hundreds of battles in my life felt interminable, and there was no way out for a long time. The solution was always to drop my weapons, sit with the pain, and wait for the boats. If I can have a superpower in my next life, I hope it’s a“loving eye,” until then, I’ll be grateful that parenthood allowed me to experience love.