It’s funny how some people can learn lessons early and quickly while others spend a lifetime of making the same mistake over and over again. It’s not until we get much older and look back that we can see the pattern, examine the choices we’ve made and dig into why we made them.
It’s taken me nearly 46 years to figure out this piece.
A Warning Sign Ignored:
I met MB when I was stationed in Germany. She was sexy as hell. She was fun. She was smart. She could beat me hands down at chess (no easy feat). Little did I know, she would be the first in a long history of bad relationship choices and all driven by something I didn’t understand.
We’d moved in together. She hated my military job and despised the “go bag” I kept next to the front door because it was a constant reminder of the inevitable. MB, like the other “wives” of Operators, knew the call would come and I would say “Yes Sir!” followed by a quick change into my fatigues, grab my go bag, a kiss goodbye and I'd be gone. Usually, we never knew where we were going or how long we’d be gone but even if we knew or suspected, we couldn’t say. So, when we kissed goodbye, it might be for a few days, months, or forever.
While her parents lived across town, she was lonely at home so we got a dog. The dog was a cute little thing; a brown
short-haired mutt we named Buffy. Buffy grew to be about 14 inches tall and was just the sweetest, happiest little girl.
It was mid-afternoon when I came home and, usually, at the sound of my keys rattling in the lock, I would hear Buffy excitedly barking on the other side of the door. That day there was no sound. For a brief moment, I thought they’d gone for a walk but, instead, I found Buffy lying in the corner shivering. On closer examination I found her left rear leg broken. Before I could ask what happened MB said “I kicked her. She wouldn’t stop following me around and I told her to go lay down but she wouldn’t so I kicked her. When I kicked her she yelped and went to the corner and hasn’t come out since.”
I took Buffy to the vet. It took a lot of time at the vets and cost a lot of money to get her leg set and in a cast. Thankfully, it was the weekend and I didn’t have to report for duty again until Monday morning so I had time. Sadly, two months later, Buffy developed an infection and had to be put down.
I’m a pretty tolerant person and I realize we all have our bad moments and we all do things we regret. So, when confronted with a piece of bad behavior, instead of examining it rationally, I usually just shrug, accept that the other person was “just having a bad day” and let the red flag fall to the floor where it turns to dust and eventually gets swept under the rug. Because of this, I never learned important lessons and not learning these lessons has impacted some of my kids in horrific ways.
A Do Over:
About a year after Buffy’s death, MB and I were in the US visiting my family and I fell in love with a white German Shepherd puppy. We bought her, named her Königin (Queen in German), got all the papers in order, and took her back to Germany with us. I immediately set about training Königin and my training included the commands “Geh Platz!” or “go to your place” and “Geh Ab!” or “Go off/away!” commands meant to avoid another Buffy incident.
Königin was a delight to have around. She was insanely smart and, at her core, she was a true caregiver and protector.
MB had a sister who was deaf and her doorbell caused the lights to flash and the floor to vibrate. It took Königin about 3 visits to figure out what the flashing lights and vibrating floor meant. Sometimes my sister-in-law never felt the vibrations or saw the flashing lights and Königin would tug at her apron or pants leg and lead her to the door. It was fun to watch.
I’m Gonna Be A Dad:
One morning MB told me she was pregnant. I was shocked by the news. While I loved MB and her family, the thought of a child scared the hell out of me. Based on my family history, I certainly didn’t feel qualified to be a dad. I started panicking!
Not sure what to do, I turned to a mentor, a retired Airforce Colonel, whoo, when asked, was known for offering pretty good advice, when asked. He suggested I write down all the things I didn’t get from my family and then figure out how I would make sure my kid would always get those things from me.
My list was never feeling cared for. Never feeling loved. Never having anyone present at any school activity. Never having anyone present at any after-school activity. Heck, for most things I had to track down the forms, take them home, get them signed, and arrange everything myself and that included bumming rides to games from one of my teammates’ dads (I was doing this stuff in the 3rd grade!). Then there were the constant moves. I wanted my kids to grow up in one place. One house. One neighborhood.
Happy house or miserable house, when you’re little, you just think “That’s how things are” and you do what you have to do. It’s not until you hit your teens that you start realizing that’s not how things are supposed to be. Then, the pain starts setting in.
I was just a kid when I figured out I was on my own and that caused me to work hard at everything (including my stint selling weed in high school). My family was surprised when I enrolled in a German college but none were surprised that I had a number of side jobs. At one side job, I sold wine (like we used to do Tupperware parties here in the USA). I also worked for the Air Force as a civilian at the Class-6 store (liquor store to you civilians) stocking shelves and "managing" the warehouse (schlepping boxes of booze). On Friday and Saturday nights, I also worked as the overnight cook at a hotel used by military officers traveling by car between two military facilities. The hotel was the halfway point in an 18-hour drive.
The baby was due in mid-May. My and my oldest brother’s birthdays were both also in May so we teased each other about whose birthday the baby would be born on. Turns out the little guy was the consummate diplomat and was born smack in the middle.
I wanted to name him Patrick Sean (I thought our family was Irish, but little did I know we were actually German!). Her family took to the name without fuss or muss. After all, their daughter had already married a foreigner, how much stranger could it get?
Patrick, Königin, and I became inseparable. We made trips to the local bakery and butcher and took long walks in the 
park. If I were home and it wasn’t his nap time, the three of us were out and about. Königin was always on guard and would gently extend the leash out to insert herself between the stroller and any passers-by. Baby peepers were never allowed close enough to stick a finger in the stroller. Königin was never mean or rude, just clear about protecting her little guy.
The weekend of December 15th was odd in that I not only had to work my 6pm to 6am shift on Friday night (after a full day of classes and 4 hours at the liquor store), but I had to be back at work at noon on Saturday to cover the last half of someone else’s 12-hour shift before working my own 12-hour overnight shift. So 24 hours up, 6 hours off, and another 18-hour shift.
Needless to say, when I got home around 7a on Sunday, I was completely exhausted. I'd had 5 hours of sleep in the past 48 hours. MB fed me some breakfast and I went to bed. It was after 2p when I awoke to some noise. The bedroom door was closed but I could hear Königin. Something wasn’t right.
Disaster Struck:
We lived in a small, 1 bedroom flat. The front door opened to our hallway with a coat rack, dog leashes, stroller etc. Opposite the front door at the other end of the hallway was the kitchen. A door on the left took you into the living/dining room. The first door on the right was the bathroom and the second door on the right was our bedroom. All in all, the hallway was about 14 feet long and the entire apartment was probably not more than 800 square feet.
Königin was really stressed about something so I got up, slipped on my jeans and a t-shirt and opened the bedroom door to find the door to the living room closed, as were the kitchen and bathroom doors. We never closed off the apartment like that! I had no idea what was going on. Once Königin heard me up she went into overdrive. Man, was she upset! I let her out and she bolted across the hall and damn near tore the living room door down trying to get into the living room. I opened that door and Königin ran to Patrick’s crib and began howling.
With all the doors closed, I figured MB and Patrick had gone somewhere so I had no idea what Königin was fussing about. I approached the crib to see what was wrong and I found Patrick dead. His face was covered in vomit, his body was cold. I screamed a horrible primal scream that brought a neighbor banging on my door. I let him in and he immediately grabbed the phone and called the police and paramedics.
Patrick was pronounced dead at the scene. I was questioned. The police found a note in the kitchen next to the coffee pot. MB had gone into Frankfurt to spend time with her family. The note said Patrick had been fed, bathed and put down for a nap but it didn't give a time. The coroner thought Patrick had been dead about 2 hours before I found him and had cried for about two hours before that. Patrick was 7 months and 1 day old when he died.
Making Sense Of It All:
My folks flew over. It was their 3rd visit; the two previous trips had been for happy times.
There were a lot of excuses given. MB thought Patrick would sleep longer. She thought I would hear him. She thought Königin would wake me up. Well, I may have heard him had both doors been open or had she left the crib in the bedroom. Königin would have woken me had she not been pinned up behind a closed door. There was no excuse for any of it. There was nothing that could be said that made any of it okay.
Needless to say, our relationship fell apart after that. By late January I had moved into a new apartment nearer to school.
Many times over the years I've returned to Dörnigheim, a town between Hanau and Frankfurt, to visit Patrick's little grave
and each time I find it abandoned and unkempt. On one trip the little wooden cross with his name on it had nearly rotted so on my next trip I brought an engraved cross made of white marble that I assembled on site. I've cleared the grave of weeds and overgrowth and planted pretty flowers more times than I can count. It always seems like I'm the only one who cares.
It's been 15 years since my last trip to Dörnigheim. In Germany, they only guarantee to keep graves for 20 years after which they reuse them when they need space. Some Americans gasp at this but then Dörnigheim has been around since 793 AD so there’s not enough land for every grave. Patrick was in the children's section so I hope he's still there.
It Happened Again:
Would you be surprised to learn that another son has died? I found out about him in 2019 and while we'd never met, we talked on the phone regularly. He died just before his 40th birthday. That’s a longer story but in a conversation with my therapist about my second son's childhood, his life, and death, I came to recognize that I have a pattern of picking “Mother of The Year” types. This pattern has led to a lifetime of pain. My therapist called it "Trauma Bonding."
Here’s How She Explained It:
Trauma Bonding occurs when a male grows up feeling unloved by his mother. Most likely Mom was a narcissist. Because his love needs were never met, the man will seek out women who appear to be sweet, kind, caring, and who will love him the way he was never loved as a child. In exchange for this love, these women seek a strong male who will be the protector and provider their father never was.
Once partnered, the couple will proceed merrily until the moment one or both suspect their partner isn’t who/what they pretended to be and either can’t or won’t meet the needs outlined in the “trauma bonding contract.” He won’t get approval for his achievements, he won’t get nurtured when he has a bad day. She won’t be rescued from the overflowing toilet or an important bill may not get paid. One partner may even try to manipulate the other into fulfilling their role in the contract.
Once a partner consciously realizes his/her needs will never be met, the relationship comes nearer to its end, the destructive behavior becomes even more destructive. Each party reacts to the broken contract by “proving” themselves not to need it. He doesn’t need her nurturing or love and she doesn’t need protecting. By pulling away and acting self-sufficient, each adds the final destructive piece.
Trauma Bonding is known as the “gift that keeps on giving, one generation after the next.” Now, I can clearly see it in my parents’ relationship. I can see it in many of my own relationships. I have seen it in at least one son’s relationship, and in one grandson’s relationship. No generation is immune.
My therapist asked me how many times MB had gone on walks with us. I couldn’t remember a single one. Not being an involved mother was one way she broke the Trauma Bond contract. My therapist told me it wasn’t uncommon for fathers in Trauma Bonded relationships to pick up many of the parenting duties.
“Okay fine. I’ve spent a lifetime Trauma Bonding but I’ve also picked one or two good women as well, so what’s with these ‘Mother of The Year’ types?” My therapist responded with raised eyebrows and the “Do I really need to explain this?” expression on her face. The “Mother of The Year” is just an extension of the sweet/kind/caring mask. If the world sees them as Mother of The Year material, no one will notice their brokenness and since no one else notices it, they too can ignore it. This is especially true if the father is estranged (the evidence is gone) “After all, if they hate Dad, Mom must be the good parent.”
That last part shook me because it’s something I hear frequently in a therapy group for “Estranged Fathers” I attend. I just hadn’t connected the dots.
What I Could Have Done Differently
I think back on all the pain I could have avoided had I stopped after each relationship and asked myself these questions:
- What attracted you to this person?
- What do/did you like about the relationship?
- What do/did you dislike about the relationship?
- What signs did you miss or ignore?
Instead of some self-reflection, I just went from one toxic relationship to another all the while thinking “This is normal” and “This is just how relationships are.” After all, you grow up seeing this toxic behavior as normal it must be normal. Watching your parents, "This is normal." Your older brothers get into the same kinds of relationships, that’s normal. Today though, I know this wasn’t normal and it’s not how healthy relationships work and our children deserve so much better.
Patrick deserved so much better than what he got.
This coming summer (2025) I will spread the ashes of my other son, from another mother. That son had repeated the pattern. He too deserved so much better than what he got.