Hija de un veterano herido

I was raised by an alcoholic, war traumatized, Vietnam veteran, and I can honestly say—I think I was one of the lucky ones. My dad carried wounds from Vietnam that ran deeper than anyone could see. Not only did he return with artificial pieces inside him, but he also battled terrible PTSD, alcoholism, and depression. And yet, I still consider myself lucky to have been raised by this man.

My father had a bad habit of putting me first and never taking care of himself. Like a good daughter, I unknowingly picked up the same habit.

He was a finish carpenter—skilled, dependable, and proud of his work. Though there were ups and downs, like falling off ladders and being laid off when work was slow, he remained an amazing employee. I honestly can’t remember a single day he called in sick. Even when I was the one who was sick, he didn’t stop. Many times, I’d sleep in the car at job sites or stay at my grandmother’s if she was free. My dad did the best he could with what he had. I'm proud of my father, his perseverance, kindness, and most of all love for me. If it wouldn't been for him I don't think I could have seen myself out of some of my darkest moments.

Family pictures aren't plenty but I luckily took a photo of one some day and still have it in my phone. Dad, Mom, my ride or die sister and baby Mari.

Growing up with a man who built things for a living was fun. He taught me to respect tools and take care of them. I tried my hand at building, but it didn’t come naturally. Still, I remember a few things he taught me, and I hope to work with wood again someday—after a little more healing. I don’t think enough people pass on skills like gardening, building, or crafting to their children anymore. I wish I had taught my kids more of those things. I wish I had slowed down more and had been present with my children. Maybe we’ll learn them together in the future. That’s one of the beautiful things about life—you never know where it will take you.