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

What made me decide to support men?

My dad.

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

My dad was a man who carried the world on his shoulders. Born in 1942 as one of seven children in what was labelled an “antisocial” family, he was never truly seen. When he was just 7 years old, he lost nearly all his hair due to malnourishment. And he was bullied his entire life.

In the mid-60s, he married my mother - who wasn’t in love with him. She used him to escape her own home and to get back at her wealthy, controlling mother. My mother came from a rich family, with only three children. Her behaviour? We - my dad and my two older siblings - all suffered under her until she died, when I was 36.

The only thing I knew from home was my mother verbally destroying everyone, especially my father. Today, I understand that she unmanned him at every opportunity.

❌ She never supported him.

❌ She never showed him care, kindness, or compassion.

❌ She never really loved him.

And the “old fool”? He loved her. With his whole heart. At least for a while. And then he settled. Settled into the grief, her abuse, her manipulations, her greed.

My father was a fireman. In Frankfurt. He worked in a special department called “Atemschutz” - one of the guys who ran into burning buildings to save people. (I don’t even know what the English equivalent is — breathing apparatus unit, maybe?)

He worked 60-hour weeks, which was normal back in the 60s and 70s. Toward the end of his career, he worked 48-hour weeks - plus the long drive, adding two more hours to every shift.

He was an alcoholic. But he managed - with the help of his only trustworthy older brother - to get sober and stay sober. For 27 years.

I always protected him. I always saw - from the beginning of my life - what my mother did to him. I always fought for others. Always fought for justice. Of course, that only made me more of an enemy to my mother, who never wanted me in the first place.

When I was nine, my father started telling me stories. Stories about seeing people and colleagues die. He put that on me - because he knew my mother saw him as weak.

And as the years passed, and things got worse with her, I watched my dad become a shadow of himself.

She forbade him everything.

He loved camping - she hated it.

He loved motorbikes - she forbade them.

He loved going out - she stopped him.

He loved German folk music - and she forbade that, too.

The list goes on.

She suppressed his wants, needs, and joy at every chance.

She was greedy, egotistical, and selfish.

And whenever my dad and I had fun together? She would deliberately destroy it - with accusations, manipulation, and lies - until we were all fighting.

But the moments when it was just the two of us?

🦸‍♂️ He was my hero.

Especially when he put on his uniform - god, he looked gorgeous. (Yes, I have a thing for uniforms.)

When we were out, safe from her looming shadow, we laughed, sang, told stories. We were us.

💪 He is the reason I can drive like a Formula One driver.

💪 He is the reason I know how to fix a car and change tyres.

💪 He is the reason why I DIY and am darn good at it.

💪 He is the reason I can sew my own clothes.

💪 He taught me dishes I still cook today.

He was fun. Kind. Resourceful. He took matters into his own hands. He never shied away from solving problems.

And in later years, when I knew how to ask the right questions, I learned more about the man behind the shadow.

I learned he had dreams and ambitions - ones he buried because of her, because of peer pressure, and because of his own limiting beliefs.

I learned he never had a space to talk - not even at work, where even though the team literally trusted each other with their lives, it was all “man up” culture.

I learned he didn’t want to be a fireman - he was pressured into it, mostly by my mother, because firemen earned decent money back then.

I learned he once worked four jobs at the same time - because my mother was greedy and burned through every penny.

And I learned that when he was 75 years old, he still carried £75,000 in debt, thanks to the spending habits she established.

He deserved better.

And I know - with the right support - he could have been a happy man.

I’m an empath. I suffer with people.

And I see how magnificent men are still oppressed by outdated, idiotic societal pressure that serves no one.

If I can help just one man reclaim his dreams, his power, and his joy - I will do everything I can to help him thrive. And then some.

PS: This is the first time ever I’ve posted a photo of my Papa on socials. But that’s him. That’s my dad. He died in 2019.