Aboard the Flying Dutchman

I watched a documentary the other day about Nan Goldin, the photographer. It’s called, “All the Beauty and All the Bloodshed.” This documentary is about many things, but one of its recurring themes is Nan’s older sister, whose presence haunts the film and Goldin. Many years after her sister’s death by suicide, Goldin still tries to appease her unquiet ghost. Goldin seems, still, to want to be worthy of her sister, who had loved her and believed in her. When her parents did not.

Nan Goldin

Family never dies. Quests and searches endure, no matter the physical status of those involved.

The fact is, if you search for your father’s love or your mother’s love and never get it, you don’t give up hope, even after they’re dead. Maybe, just maybe, you believe, they’ll come back from the grave—or from somewhere—and appear in your house or apartment one day and say those words you’ve been yearning to hear,

“I love you.”

Or, just as vital, “I’m proud of you.”

Death doesn’t diminish the pull of unrequited love. Not in a family. Every day is father’s day or mother’s day for some of us. Whether this is logical or not, doesn’t matter. If you never had their love, you’re like a puzzle looking for that missing piece that will reveal the entirety of your picture and without it, won’t.

Each person on this Flying Dutchman—“a legendary ship never able to make port, but doomed to sail the seven seas forever”—has their own way of contending with the absence. Some do much better than others. Some shrug, more or less, and get on with their lives. I’m one of those who hasn’t adjusted particularly well. The echoes of my unrequited love have determined many of the decisions of my life. Will this father figure give me what I crave? Will that father substitute be proud of me? I can see why I do what I do, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it. I suppose it’s a form of addiction. There’s no twelve-step process for this. Not even therapy, I’ve found, can bring peace. Do you know what I mean?

I return to this quote by Dawn Powell (1896-1965), the American novelist. It’s from her Diaries:

“Some people seem to ‘never grow up’—they do not take personal or emotional responsibilities.  The fact is they are in reverse—they were forced to be adults as children, to understand and be part of extremely adult problems—financial, amorous, domestic, psychological—and they cannot get to a certain other plane without some period (the equivalent of an ideal childhood) of security, love, money, being cared for and cherished.  Many of us continue seeking this childhood of which we were deprived and will not surrender until we have had our share.”

Meanwhile, the ship sails on.