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I see the attacks about Biden’s love for his son and it hurts my heart. I was a drug addict, I was in prison for many years, and the unconditional love from my father was pivotal in my journey out of the darkness. Let me talk about it.
Growing up, my Dad was stern. I used to fear him - not in an abusive sense - but in the sense that he was the disciplinarian. He was also angry, something that I now attribute to being overworked and having a crumbling marriage with my mother.
I was addicted to meth in high school and dropped out. My parents debated whether to send me to rehab before I turned 18 - but my Dad didn’t like the idea of forcibly snatching me up and sending me away.
My first major arrest happened at 18. I was handcuffed to a drop down ladder in the hallway when my Dad arrived at the house. I saw him from down the hall and I saw his eyes. They burned me, I felt so much shame.
I didn’t want to speak with him, my fear was so great. I stared at the floor and begged the cops to take me out the back door of the house so I didn’t have to walk past my father. They obliged and I went to jail.
The first time my father visited me in jail - I saw something different, something I hadn’t seen before. My arrest led him to reflect on his own life, on his role as a parent. He recognized my mistakes but alluded to mistakes he may have made as a parent, as well.
My Dad came to every single court appearance. For the two years I was in jail and prison, he visited every month. Sitting with one another’s undivided attention for 6 hours each month built a new relationship between he and I. Something I never would’ve imagined previously.
My father’s father died before I was born, when he was a young man. My Dad told me that the prison visits were giving each of us something he’d never been able to have with his own Dad: an adult relationship between father and son. We hugged. He kissed me. We said, “I love you.”
After paroling, when I was 21, I did fairly well. My father had become my best friend. I started drinking and smoking pot occasionally and my Dad worried about it. But he didn’t judge me.
I was with my Dad when I got the news that my best friend killed himself. I was devastated. When my father dropped me off at my home that night, he said, “Please don’t do anything Pat (my dead friend) wouldn’t want you to.” I knew what he meant, but I couldn’t help myself.
I became a daily drinker and relapsed on meth shortly thereafter. My father started to see what was happening and tried repeatedly to reach out to me. I had so much shame. I didn’t return his calls. I can only imagine the heartbreak he felt. I was spiraling.
I was arrested about a year and a half later, facing life in prison for a 3rd strike. My father came up from San Diego to visit me in the county jail. I had such a hard time looking him in the face. I was so embarrassed.
He said to me, “Matt, there’s nothing I can say to you that you’re probably not already saying to yourself. I just want you to know I’m here for you”. I looked at him from across the table and cried.
“Dad”, I said and stumbled on my words. “What is it?” he said, choking on his words. I looked him in the eyes and saw the tears. It was the first time I’d ever seen my father cry. “Dad, I’m a drug addict.” It was the first time I’d ever said that to him.
A few months later, I was due for preliminary hearings, when evidence against me would be presented. I didn’t want my family to come because I was so ashamed of what I’d done, again. I told my father in no uncertain terms that I didn’t want him coming to the hearing.
“Oh, I’m coming”. I told him not to. He refused to budge. So I stopped calling him, hoping to punish him for his obstinacy. I hoped that by ignoring him he wouldn’t show up. But come preliminary hearing day, he was sitting in the courtroom.
I refused to look him in the eyes. He sat behind me for two whole days while the damning evidence was presented. I could feel my father’s eyes, my shame really, burning holes in the back of my head the entire time. Count after count, shame after shame, he sat there for it all.
When the hearing was over, the bailiff escorted me out and I didn’t look at my father. As I was walking out the door, I heard my father yell from across the courtroom, “I love you, Matt. I love you”. My heart was broken. I knew I couldn’t ignore this man any longer.
For 7 years in prison, my father visited me every single month. He never once judged me. He only loved me. He only showed care and support. He showed me the meaning of love and what manhood can look like.
Two weeks before paroling, my Dad visited me one last time. When it was over, we hugged and I wept in his arms. He kissed me and said, “I love you, Matt”.
I imagine this hug and kiss didn’t look all that different than the photo of Joe and Hunter circulating on Twitter right now. How dare anyone judge this. How dare anyone judge the love that saved my life.
And this anecdotal moment from last year, my father and I: https://twitter.com/hahnscratch/status/1089218961370050560">https://twitter.com/hahnscrat...
