Failure (Part 1 of 3)

In my junior year in high school, my father and I were struggling in our relationship. We fought and argued all the time. It was the last year of my 16 year stay in Indonesia. I was becoming “a man”, and part of that process involved my constant rebellion against his authority.

One night in late January of 2002, a discussion my dad and I were having turned into an argument, which then led to a fight – a fist fight. It wasn’t that the issue we were arguing over was so important that a brawl was necessary. Neither was the reason behind the fight rooted in the topic we were discussing. Rather, my father and I had long been struggling with pains both from his past and my own past with him. That night, whatever “thing” we were fighting over was enough to make all of our unresolved issues boil over. And boy did the boiling burn.

I don’t remember the physical pain from that experience as much as the verbal. I was 16, and capable of handling myself. But no warm-blooded heart, regardless of its age, could defend itself from the words exchanged. I loved my father; he loved me. And that is why the words hurt us more than any other form of violence we traded. That night, I packed my bags, and before heading out the front door, told my dad, “Tonight, you won’t see me cry. Tonight, I win.”

Two months after that incident, due to my over extended holiday on the streets, I dropped out of high school. I picked up chain smoking, drinking, fighting - my escape at the time - and a few other habits I won’t get into details about. Seven months later, after my father concluded his 16 year mission in Indonesia, I was in Tokyo redoing my junior year, trying to make the best out of the clean slate I had been given. By January of 2003, I had dropped out of high school yet again, and found myself on a plane headed back to Fukuoka where my parents lived. It was my first solo flight; I was angry, depressed, ashamed, and alone.