This letter reminds me of my father, who – without knowing it – helped make me the man I am today.
When I was a little boy, my father seemed bigger than life, as most fathers seem to be young sons. I looked at him the way I imagine my son Jeremiah looked at me at that age – like a superhero, a towering giant who could fix anything, do anything, and make everything look better than it was. We see what we want to see until we stop doing it.
Life took it from me very early in my life, so we could never have the kind of deep conversations that my son and I had. We never shared a beer together. We never ran a half marathon together, never traveled the world together, never went camping, never participated in baseball or soccer games together. My memories of him are very small, but I have one that will never fade.
I was about seven years old and we returned home from somewhere. We laughed when he turned into the driveway. He was good at making me laugh.
When we got out and looked at him over the roof of the car, all I could see was his head. My superhero father seemed so small, with only one head and no body. While giggling, I slammed the car door shut in the door with my thumb. I cried out loud and cried that he should fix it. I stood there frozen and unable to move. What he did next remains in my memory forever.
Calm and gentle, but firm, my father said: "JOSEPH – OPEN THE DOOR."
At that point in my seven year life I was falling, bumping, smashing, crashing and breaking some objects and parts of my body. On occasions when I had hurt myself, I had seen the alarm in his eyes, sometimes panic. It was different this time. His eyes were quiet, calm, and wise, as if he knew he was passing an important lesson from father to son.
Life guarantees that something goes wrong and we get hurt. Sometimes we freeze or panic in those moments. The lesson my father taught me is when these things happen, calm down, breathe – and open the door.
My father reminded me that I have the knowledge, ability and strength to deal with the situation. So I opened the door and was free.
Thank you Dad.
But despite his lesson, I was not always free. I was painfully stuck for much of my life.
I was conceived by two people who loved each other enough to bring my brother and me into the world and start a family. Of his sons, I was my father's favorite. As it turned out, he and my mother found that they did not match and chose separate ways. It is a very familiar story.
Some in my family suggested that my father was not equipped, not in the condition to be the best example for me. I will never know. He took the divorce very hard and was not allowed to see us after they separated. My last memories of him watched him sit in his car and cry in front of our house. I felt alone without my father.
We moved every year. My mother had trouble raising two boys as a secretary in Los Angeles, California. Most landlords would not allow us to extend the lease as we were late with the rent most months. My brother and I never knew about it – their way of protecting us.
You were bullied as a new child – unless the other children thought you were crazy. In that case, they would leave you alone. I learned early on to argue with the tallest child in the playground on the first day of school, even though I was pulverized, which was quite often the case.
I ran away from home a few times. I thought if I could only find my father everything would be fine. I hadn't been told yet that he was dead.
The cause of his death certificate, which I would find later, was suicide.
Alcohol and sleeping pills were apparently somewhat common at this time. I found out three years after his death when I was in ninth grade – again the way my mother protected us.
Although I was a decent student and did my freshman with a B + average, I never felt good enough. When I was fifteen, my mother took me to the local police station. From there I was sent to the youth center and sent to a troubled youth home, which was then called The Pacific Lodge Boys Home.
Woodland Hills, California, was a strange place for a boy's home. We went to the local public high school to get a feel for normal life. It worked theoretically, but children can be very cruel. We were referred to as "Lodge Boys" by the other children and reminded us daily that we were not "normal" children.
Friends were difficult to find unless they came from the box. So most of us just hung out; it created a connection between us. When someone from school messed with a Lodge Boy – and they usually did – we all came running. We called ourselves The Band of Wayward Brothers.
The daily schedule at the lodge was geared towards individual counseling and occasional family group counseling sessions with the goal of getting every boy back into his family unit. I knew that I could never return home, that I would live in the lodge until I turned eighteen, alone, without a family, without a tribe, and without someone to belong to – a disposable child that nobody wanted.
In one minute you belonged to something – be it healthy or dysfunctional, it is your tribe, your family – and the next minute it was taken away. You are suddenly, unexpectedly, confused alone. After losing my father as a child, I felt alone. Now I was really lost.
In the residential complex with several dormitories there were several advisors who worked and slept there during their shift. One of my advisors, Cane, was a social worker. He was a warm, relaxed surfer and always nice.
Cane really seemed to care and never judged us. I was terrible for him. Most of us were. We were a group of angry, injured boys who felt alone in the world and were housed in a home for troubled youth.
Of the approximately one hundred children in the lodge at Christmas, only two of us were not welcome to be on vacation with our family. My friend Patrick and I would not go home, which meant that our advisor Cane, whose shift was that night, only had to stay in the dorm with us two instead of being home with his family for Christmas.
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Little did we know, Cane had asked for it and was given permission to take Patrick and me off campus for Christmas. We didn't know what we were getting into, but it was better than being in the lodge.
Cane picked us up on Christmas Eve and we made our way to what he called "Cane & # 39; s Christmas Present Run" and visited friends of his to exchange gifts and holiday requests. None of them made us feel like we were there, even though they knew where we came from.
The day ended in his mother's house with a homemade Christmas dinner and all the ingredients. It was a real family meal with lots of food and lots of people, none of us feeling excluded or unwanted.
Cane and his mother gave Patrick and me gifts – no ugly sweaters or generic or cheap items; real gifts that you have chosen only for us. I had never known this kind of generosity. I did not understand it. I will never forget this day as long as I live.
When he brought us back the next day, I asked him why he was so nice to me. He said, "My job, Joe, is to love you enough until the day comes when you can love yourself so much."
I never forgot his words, although I didn't know what they meant at the time. Studies have shown that children blame themselves when they leave. The overwhelming feeling of not being worth, being loved and not having enough value for another can and can severely affect a child's value and self-confidence.
My life changed that day. That day, Cane planted a tiny seed in the back of my head that maybe, just maybe, was lovable. If I loved each other enough first, maybe someone would love the man I grew up to be.
And there was my father's lesson again: I just had to open the door and let in the love of others and myself.
I had my ups and downs.
I was homeless for homeowners. Not an easy task in California.
Unemployed for a nationally recognized business owner.
Poor and broke so as not to have to worry about being driven out.
A fifteen-year-old, disposable child of a seated board member of the San Diego Center for Children, which I affectionately call The Pacific Lodge Boys Home South.
A lost boy for world travelers who now knows that not everyone who walks is lost.
For the next generation of wayward brothers and sisters or for anyone who feels lost or stuck, I've learned the following in this way. I hope it helps you.
1. Good people make bad decisions; that doesn't make them bad people, it just makes it a bad decision.
2. Forgive others easily and often, especially yourself. I enjoy an amazing relationship with my mother today. See rule number 1.
3. They are not broken and therefore do not need to be repaired. You are perfect the way you are. Just like Cane said, I was worth being loved. And you too!
4. Life rewards the brave, so be brave. Use the opportunity for yourself and others. It would have been extremely easy to sink into a hole and let my life go sideways and blame others for it. Bravery chooses not to be a victim of your circumstances and instead proactively shape your life.
5. First love you with all your heart and be your best friend. Those around you will benefit.
6. Just because someone says it doesn't mean it's true. You have the right to an opinion, but you also have the right to choose not to believe it. Life told me that I was not amiable. Cane has proven the opposite.
7. Happiness is a choice, not a place, a thing, a moment or a person. Only you can make yourself happy.
8. Everything happens for a reason. Find out why. There are no mistakes in life, just lessons.
9. Finally and above all, OPEN THE DOOR AND UNLOCK YOURSELF!
About Joseph
Joseph Binning, once an abandoned, homeless, substance abusing teenage dropout, has since given up his limited beliefs about himself, his love, and his success and has risen to become a self-made visionary . At a workshop in 2016, when he whispered in his ear the two words his heart had longed for, he suddenly knew his purpose in life – which he examines in his forthcoming book You Matter, Even If You Don't think so.
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