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My Dad’s Notebooks

I recently came across my dad’s old journals. They do not resemble the notebooks talks about in his writings. I’ve found the notebooks and have secured them.

The reasons that I’m transcribing his journals is simple, he’s going missing. I need help finding him.

Anyways, here it goes:

Hello there. I’m not sure what you are expecting to find here. Hell, I’m not sure what I’ll be writing here. I already write so much in those damned notebooks. I use the word “damned” in a quite literal sense. You’ll under

Anyways, I wanted to leave something for my family. I’ve been going through a lot lately and figured that getting my thoughts out on normal paper would be a hell of a lot better than the alternative… I’m sorry, I must sound confusing. I hope that the further you read, the more it will make sense.

Where should I start? From the beginning? Sure, why not. Every story has a beginning.

I was raised a typical military brat. Spent time over in Europe and a multitude of states. My dad worked with the Air Force in Strategic Air Command. All I knew about his job what that is was classified. He once tried explaining it to me like this:

“Well, it’s like going to work every day and trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle. However, the picture is a solid color and other people keep adding more pieces or hiding them from you.”

I didn’t see him much. The only way in knew he was home was by the presence of his duffel bags. He had one packed for an out-of-country deployment and one for an in-country TDY. If both bags were by the door, I knew he was home.

Mom did her best to keep up with my brother and me. It didn’t help that she also worked a classified job, just on the DoD Civilian side of things. At least we were able to see her at nights and on weekends.

During the week days, my brother would go to day care and I would go to the base’s youth center. I was a little awkward and mostly kept to myself. I didn’t really fit any “normal” stereotype. After awhile, I got use to being alone. It got to the point that I started to worry my parents. I enjoyed being alone so much that it seemed normal to me. My parents said that I should have been spending time with kids on my own age and enjoying the very few family functions we had.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my family. I just didn’t want to be around them.

Before my lack of social skills became too much of a problem, my dad was medically discharged from the Air Force and we moved back to my parent’s hometown. The thought was that our family down there would be able to “instill the traditional southern hospitality” in me and I would become “normal.”

Given the type of people that frequent this website, I know that you’ll find that humorous. Just finish laughing and I’ll type ahead. Heaven knows that I’m not going anywhere.

So, to appease my parents and keep from being hackled to death by my family, I became “normal.” There was a trade off, however. It seemed to be an unspoken agreement between my parents and me. I would act “normal” out in public and around my extended family and then I was allowed my alone time when we were at our house.

After the second week of being in their hometown, my mom bought me a little back notebook. She thought that I should be able to at least get my thoughts out of my head and express myself in some form.

We settled into a routine of me going to school and having a social life with friends. My parents pretended that everything was fine and I would steal away into my room every sparing moment that I could and fill notebooks full of rants, short stories, and general thoughts.

I felt comfortable writing. Just something about the pen and paper. The ink and paper didn’t judge. My favorite combination was a classic, lined Molekine hard cover journal and a Parker Jotter pen. I wrote so much that a callus developed on the side of my middle finger. Each of my writing sessions would leave my hand cramped and aching, and I loved it.

I eventually graduated high school and didn’t follow the normal crowd to university. Instead, I chose to go into public service. I went to a community college and obtained my EMT-Basic certificate and license. I worked my way up to being a Paramedic and actually enjoyed my job.

I bet you’re scratching your head. Yeah, a little more information will help.

My dad was a fire medic for our hometown before he enlisted in the Air Force. Because he went into the National Guard and not active duty straight away, they made his civilian job his military job. When it was apparent that my parents couldn’t afford a family on a firefighter’s salary, dad when active duty and we were shipped to Europe. During his transition back to the states, he was moved to SAC.

The few conversations that I did have with him, he had always talked about enjoying the fire department and wishing that he had never left.

With that, I followed in my father’s foot steps. But, I didn’t stop at just being a paramedic. I obtained my flight medic certification and when through a Tactical Combat Casualty Care course. I spent time attached to my county’s Sheriff S.W.A.T. Team. I worked with an anti-human trafficking group. I became a Critical Stress Incident Debriefer. The certifications I earned goes on for days.

It’s no secret that we see some bad things in the field and the list of fucked-up shit that I’ve seen is long and extensive.

So, for your benefit, beloved reader, I will not go into detail. Those are my demons to deal with.

Every chance I get, I put another demon into one of my precious notebooks. My hand screams with pain every time I write. It’s almost as if I can feel the pain leaving my body through the ink of my pen. The gratification of seeing that ink forever trapped on those pages is indescribable.

I do my best to keep my notebooks from my family. The atrocities that fill those pages makes the devil smile with delight. Sometimes, I can even hear him whisper over my shoulder to let the demons out.

“Oh, how beautiful if would be…” he would start. “It’s very simple and you know it.” My hands would run over the covers of my notebooks, feeling each one of them begging to be let out. His whispers would grow sweeter and more enticing each time he spoke.

Then, I would see a reflection of myself. An evil grin playing on my lips. I would snap out of it and leave my office.

My office is not very big. I live in a four bed room house and it’s the smaller of the rooms. I installed a lock on the door to keep the curious temptations of my wife and kids in check. I bought a small second hand desk and shelves. Each shelf is filled with my precious notebooks. Their spines smile at me every time I walk in the room. At last count, I had two-thousand and fifty-seven notebooks.

I do what I feel like every dutiful father and husband should. I provide for my family. I make time for my girls and wife. But, when they are all in bed, I head to my office. My wife knows where I go. She knows that if I walk into my office with a bad attitude, I always come out feeling better.

I have a routine when I enter my office. I unlock the door, step inside, shut and lock my door, and stand there in the darkness for no more than ninety seconds. It becomes too unbearable if I stay in the dark any longer. After turning on the light, I make my way to my coffee maker and make a large cup of coffee. Once it has brewed and coffee in hand, I walk over to the book shelf that holds my empty notebooks and select one. It isn’t a random choice, while all of my notebooks look that same, each notebook is different. I run my fingers over the spines and pick the one that calls to me that day. I sit down at my desk and pull out my pen. I take a sip of coffee and start to write.

My writing isn’t elegant or beautiful. It’s harsh and heavy-handed. When I start, the pages of the notebook are slowly filled. The pages make a satisfyingly crackle when I turn to write on the next page. As each page passes, the writing becomes faster. There is not change to my handwriting, my writing just becomes faster and faster. There are no breaks and I don’t go back to read them. When I finally close my notebook and slide the elastic band over the cover, my hand is aching and he is whispering in my ear. You see, the coffee isn’t for me. I just make sure the taste is suitable for him. Once I am able to stand, I take my notebook over to the shelves of full notebooks and slide it into its proper place. There is no origination to my notebooks, each one just tells me where to place it.

I wipe out the used coffee mug, place it next to the coffee maker, and unlock my door. Just before I step out of the door, I hear him say, “See you tomorrow night.”

It wasn’t a normal routine. But, it was one that allowed for my family to live happily enough. There where times that I was not able to write in my notebooks and my family could tell. One time, I tried for about a week and was almost put on anti-depressants as a result. At that point, my wife encouraged me to write every night that I was at home. My parents, however, still thought that it was unhealthy. I wish they would have just left everything alone. Things would definitely be better if they had.

I remember that day very clearly. I had gotten off of shift that morning and had taken my girls to see their aunt. My dad was suppose to get off of work a little after noon and meet us at their house so we could all spend some time together before Aunt Pam left to go back home.

Mom asked me to call dad to make sure that he knew to come home instead of going to his doctor’s appointment. (We rescheduled it for the next week.) Dad said, “Ok.” And we went back to talking like nothing was wrong.

You can see where this is going.

Last trigger warning. It’s about to get graphic.

When I couldn’t get a hold of dad and he didn’t show up for dinner, I went to his office to check on him. My heart sank as I turned the corner and saw his truck sitting in the empty parking lot. He wouldn’t answer the door and very time I called, I could hear his phone ring.

I called 911 and gave them my spill. Luckily I knew the dispatcher and the responding fire department. We were able to use a halligan tool to open the side door and we made entry.

I was the first one to find him. He was lying in the floor of the bathroom with his belt around his neck. I’ve seen too many dead bodies to know. The ashen skin, the cyanosis around his lips, and swollen tongue, I knew he had passed. All I could do was stand there, knowing that there was absolutely nothing I could do. The feeling of helplessness was overwhelming. I felt the a pair of arms wrap around me and then I was being led out of the building by my colleagues.

I sat on the bumper of the rescue truck. My face buried in my hands. No matter how hard I not to let them, the tears escaped. There wasn’t a person on scene that I didn’t know. I was brought water, offered a consoling word or two, and hugged. After what seemed an eternity, I was able to compose myself long enough to talk with a deputy and answer his questions.

After a while the dark humor took over and it was as if I were just on another scene with my co-workers. Of course, I had to step away a time or two, just to compose myself and then walk back. It was during one of my walks back that I noticed it. A set of eyes just beyond the edge of light. It was far enough back into the shadows that I couldn’t quite make out the shape, but I knew exactly what it was. It was at that time that I felt a slight touch on my should and a whisper in my ear.

“He read one.” His voice jeered. “Oh, how beautiful it was.” I couldn’t see him, but I knew that he was smiling.”

“Now is not the time to be playing fucking games.” I said in a low tone. All fear from me had gone. Nothing but anger and hatred were guiding my words.

I felt his hand move from my shoulder, almost as a startle. It was then that I realized that this was the first time that I had actually spoken to him.

“No games.” He said. All evidence of him being startled was nonexistent. “I’m only speaking truth. Go look in his office chair.”

Without saying another word to him, I walked up to the deputy and asked to look at my dad’s office chair. The deputy walked with me into dad’s office and using a gloved hand, we pushed the chair back. There is was, sitting as he said it would be.

“Anything relevant?” The deputy asked.

“Not sure. You mind?” I asked, gesturing to the notebook. The deputy shook his head and I opened the notebook. It was completely empty.

His voice returned to my ear, “Your door is no longer locked.”