He ran into burning buildings to save lives. But no one ever saved him.🔥

Disclaimer: This is my story, and it contains triggering content regarding abuse and addiction.

My Papa. See the wee picture in the upper right corner? That's me. Lying on his chest.

I grew up in an environment of chaos, manipulation, abuse, addiction, hate, egotism… You name it. Toxic and vastly damaging behaviours, driven solely by my mother.

My Dad - my Papa - was my hero. Even though it didn’t look like it at times. Even though he could be a very cruel man. Even though I was told he wasn’t my Dad by people who just wanted to land a stab - including my own mother.

But he was my Papa. And he’s the reason why I am helping midlife men today.

The Burden of the Uniform

Growing up, I knew my Dad in only four states: overworked, absent, rarely fun and kind, and often horrifying and brutal when he got angry.

The absence was because he was a fireman in Frankfurt, in the “Atemschutz” unit. They are the ones who go into burning buildings when no one else can anymore. Mask on, tanks on the back, crawling through the burning, smoking spaces, trying to save people, and fighting the fires.

I don’t need to tell you about the horrors he had to face. Not only battling his own survival instincts every time he went in, but also the loss he saw and suffered when even colleagues perished because someone played with fireworks, or left a cigarette or candle burning.

But when he came home, he had nowhere to go with his problems, his horrors, his pain. The one person who should have been kind, understanding, and supportive wasn't.

The Cost of Silence

My mother dismissed and emasculated him whenever she could, but she was happy to take his money - and more, creating debt beyond comprehension because of overspending. When my father was 75 years old, he still had £75k debt left. He died about a month and a half before he could turn 77.

That overspending fuelled the absence. I grew up in a youth hostel, where my parents were the lessees, so when he came home from being a fireman, he had to work in the hostel. Maintenance, organising the bar, catering, and keeping three function rooms in order for big events.

He was also an alcoholic. It was his coping strategy. Later, he managed to get sober by himself (with the help of one of his eldest brothers) and he stayed that way for 27 years, until life took an unbearable swing at him again.

He didn’t have much emotional regulation when it came to anger and rage. Don’t get me wrong, that had nothing to do with his alcoholism. He was one of those where you wouldn’t notice a thing. The lack of emotional regulation led to brutal attacks against my older brother when he was just a child, and sometimes against me. When my mother perceived me as having been naughty, she didn’t get her hands dirty; she waited until my Dad came home. Exhausted, annoyed, no support after a hard day - and I got it then.

The Papa I Knew in the Shadows

And then there was his fun and kind side.

Every time my mother wasn’t around, or put up a show of being a “great wife” in a crowd, he was fun. He loved to laugh and joke, but also sit still and observe. And then, suddenly, when he’d say something, it landed. A well-placed joke, an intelligent opinion, a wicked remark. And a full-body laugh that made his belly shake and sounded through the room.

During the rare moments when he and I were out and about, or did things together - like repairing his car, mine, or a sibling's, or when he taught me how to DIY or how to sew my reenactment clothes - he was the Papa I always wanted to see: The happy, caring, loving, and fun man. The teacher and sometimes, though rarely, the protector.

I knew that was his true self from the start. Even when I was a wee child, I stood up for him, trying to protect him from yet another onslaught of my mother’s cruelty.

The Plea for Freedom

I was about 12 when I asked him for the first time - or rather begged him - to get a divorce. That was when my life truly started to fall apart and become a living hell. It had been before, but that’s when it got absolutely worse. My sister had left for a job in my former hometown, and my brother hadn't moved with us, so I was alone with my parents except for the weekends.

I wanted him to run. I wanted him to leave. I wanted him gone for his own sake, whilst I was okay with staying back, battling my mother. I wanted nothing more than to see him happy. I brought it up again and again over the years, but his answer was always the same: that he was too old and didn’t know how to start over; that it was too late. He was only 47 by that time.

I had to helplessly watch how my mother erased him to a point where he was a shadow of himself, taking on her opinions only to have peace and quiet. Of course, that didn’t work. She would always find reasons to start a fight. Without exception.

Because of her own insecurities, she forbade him to go camping, drive a motorcycle, go out to social events, or even listen to his music. Even when he was in his room (they had separate rooms for as long as I can remember) she shouted often enough that she didn't want to hear his music, whilst yelling at me to crank up my heavy metal. He hated it. I didn’t know then that she was using me to hurt him; I was just thankful for a “loving,” acknowledging-that-I-exist response from her instead of the usual cruelty.

The Weight of Generations

My parents were born in 1942 and 1943. They married in 1966. Whilst my Dad loved my mother and was smitten with her, she only used him to get out of her toxic family home. He came from an “antisocial” family with seven kids, whilst she came from a “posh” family with money.

All my life she said she didn’t love my Dad, and only got together with him to get back at her parents. It was unfortunately not a joke, even though she tried masking it as such. I will never forget the day she said it once again, and my Dad couldn’t hide his emotions quickly enough. The soul-deep pain I saw on his face was heartbreaking, and I started a seriously bad fight with her. One of the worst we ever had. I was a teenager.

When I was about nine years old, my father started to confide in me. That’s when I first heard how he had to watch people die in fires. My mother was 43. How far must a man be driven to use his nine-year-old daughter as a sounding board whilst his wife was right there?

That’s also when he instilled the existential fear in me of losing him. Every time he went to a shift, I cried secretly. On the loo, in my bed, careful that my mother didn’t notice, because I was so scared he wouldn’t come back. That was also the time when I decided I’d never marry a fireman or police man.

He could not go to my mother. She called him weak, lazy, soft, incapable, thick… the list is long. Take your pick of insults; she knew them all.

The Fire Accelerant

Many of the worst moments for me were when I was with my Dad in his shed and we were DIYing together, often listening to his radio channel. I didn’t like it, but I loved how he lit up over it, sang, and was just himself. Happy. She would deliberately seek us out, come up with the strangest accusations, and within just one minute, we’d all be at each other's throats. She was the fire accelerant my Dad was incapable of stopping.

In those rare moments when we were alone, I learned about the dreams and ambitions he once had. I learned that he didn’t want to be a fireman but had to be because the job paid well and his wife demanded the money. It’s what a husband does, isn’t it? Sacrifice himself, and get nothing in return but shaming, hate, and hurt. From what I remember, he said he was actually very content and happy in his first job. He was a locksmith, and he loved it. He’d often speak about it over the years and show me little tricks during our DIY adventures.

The Final Toll

Over the years, I gave up asking him to leave. I silently watched. After she died, I saw for about half a year the man I knew and wanted to have back. He even went out with me! I had hoped so much that he’d now be free. He’d have deserved it.

But he was conditioned by then. He slipped back into behaviour as if she were still alive. Then he basically became her. And started drinking again. He died in 2019, about five and a half years after my mother. He was a drunk for about four years of that time.

But HE is the reason why I can drive like a Formula One driver. He is the reason why I DIY, can sew, and can fix my car (to a certain extent).

And during the last years, I noticed how much I have from him. The bubbliness in meetings, the laughter, the good teeth, the wicked humour, and the strength and resilience that helped me survive the abuse, emigrate, cut ties with my toxic family, build a business, and be the person I am today.

Breaking the Cycle

There are tons of men out there who have succumbed to societal expectations and the “man-up” culture. Men who have been struggling through abusive relationships; men without boundaries. Men who suffer quietly but do “the right things,” even if they aren’t actually the right things and are purely based on the perception and needs of others.

I am more than capable of helping these men. Skill, knowledge, and years of training, but most importantly: lived experience and deep compassion fuel me. It makes me good at helping others become courageous enough to be themselves.

If you see yourself in my father’s story, know that it isn’t too late to start over. It never is, no matter how old you are.

If you feel the need to talk or get in touch, I am here.

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