The Budget of Paradox

Sophia, everyone loves Hawaii. At least, for two weeks. Everyone wants to vacation in Hawaii to sit on the beach, go golfing, or fishing, or relax by the pool. I get it. But after two weeks, most people want to go home. Some people dream about living in Hawaii. And some actually make that dream come true. But, very often, they get “Island Fever”, and eventually feel trapped and isolated. Within a year, they’re back on the Mainland. It takes a special person to truly call Hawaii “home”.

Hawaii and I have a special relationship. In the days before the internet, I moved there when I was just 19, not much older than you are now. I didn’t know what to expect, not really. I hadn’t ever been there before. I had no one to meet me at the airport. I didn’t know where I would spend my first night. Your Nana Julie was very worried.

But when I stepped off the plane in Hilo, on the Big Island, it was raining. I tell people it was like a Baptism. I immediately felt at home. I can’t explain it. Within a few weeks, I would meet people and have experiences that would have a deep and everlasting impact on my life.

You won’t meet anyone who enjoys exploring Hawaii more than me. Soon after I arrived, I bought a 4-wheel-drive jeep and drove to remote valleys and beaches that most tourists never see. I hiked around the Big Island’s active volcano, sometimes standing a few yards from flowing lava. I went swimming at a place the locals call The End Of The World. At night, I took my girlfriend to a place called King’s Landing. I doubt you’ll find those places on any map.

When I started my pilot training, I flew around Hawaii and saw amazing places with names such as The Garden of the Gods (on Lanai) and Stairway to Heaven (on Oahu).

I grew up in New York. Your Nana Julie found this letter that I had written when I was a child, about 7 or 8 years old. I wrote that I wanted to fly, and fly to Hawaii.

Your mother once made the comment that I’m a man who only wants a few things. But, of those few things, I’m relentless; I stop at nothing until I succeed. There I was, a child growing up in New York, deciding to be a pilot in Hawaii. And I made it happen before I turned 20. Believe me, you can do anything if you put your heart into it.

You were born in Hawaii, but of course, you don’t remember. I know you got to visit Hawaii a few years ago. You told me you really liked it there. One of my dreams is to personally show you around someday. Maybe I can even fly you around. I would love to show you Hawaii through my eyes. And maybe go swimming at The End of the World.

Sophia, your mother has probably told you at some point that I’m a math weenie; I like numbers, I like math, I like calculating answers. During our divorce, your mother’s lawyer and I often disagreed about money, which, in the end, is really just about numbers. My numbers were based on reality. Her numbers were tortured (and just like people, tortured numbers will tell you anything you want to hear).

As a joke, I often say that lawyers can’t do basic arithmetic. I often found myself in a room with three lawyers, and I was the only one who could do simple math. But sometimes, it’s not a joke. Sometimes, it becomes real life.

I was watching a divorce video on YouTube, and I found this clip. The man had discovered an error in his wife’s lawyer’s calculations. The judge didn’t notice. No one noticed a gross error in the math, and when the man complains to the judge, he’s told to sit down and shut up.

Nice.

When I complain that Family Court is a joke, I’m not kidding. The judges really are this stupid.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.

Sophia, I think it’s amazing that your mother still thinks, after all these years, that she’s been completely neutral between you and me. When you were eight years old, you told me you couldn’t visit me because I would kidnap you and wouldn’t let you go back to Lynhcburg. Amazingly, at eight years old, you had the same concerns as your “neutral” mother and her scumbag lawyer. And even her scumbag lawyer wasn’t concerned about kidnapping until we disagreed about money.

So, let’s recap. I’ve never threatened to kidnap anyone. I never suggested it, ever, not even as a joke. Your mother even offered to let me take you out of the country, unsupervised, back in 2013. But as soon as I disagreed with her lawyer over money, then suddenly, her lawyer had the idea that I was a kidnapper. She also had the idea that I was an arsonist and I burned down Papa Bear’s house. Another lie, but at least I could prove the fire idea was a lie.

Anyway, by some miracle, despite your mother claiming to be totally neutral and not “brainwashing” my kids, you – at age eight – came up with the same theory, all on your own, that I wanted to kidnap you.

I’ve said this before: your mother and her lawyer need to keep changing their story to fit the facts. My story never changed. I love my kids and I would certainly never hurt them.

And while you’re reading that e-mail from your mom, I need to remind you that it’s not the job of a therapist to affirm anything. I know your mom is terribly insecure and needs external validation. But that’s not a therapist’s job. You see a therapist because there’s something wrong. I’m on the side of you that wants to aim up. Am I going to affirm whatever you think? No, it’s not up to me to affirm anything. You don’t get a casual pat on the back from a therapist for your pre-existing axiomatic conclusions. That’s not therapy; that’s a rubber stamp.

And I’ve seen the way your mom picks therapists: she shops around until she finds one who will agree with her. She and I had a marriage counselor named Dr. Carol Marsh. Ask your mom about her. We saw her a few times, but when she disagreed with your mom, we never went back to her again.

Your mom prefers “therapists” like Genevieve Whittemore. Ever met her? She’s not even a doctor, and she practices medicine without a license in her kitchen. I’m sure that’s the kind of “therapist” your mom is referring to in her rant. Every story has two sides, kid.

Percy Willodean Galjour… wow, there’s a name that just rolls right off your tongue.

Percy, you’ll always be Morey to me. Your first name was one of the few things your mother and I agreed on. Do you even remember the story about your middle name?

Suddenly, Dagmar doesn’t sound so crazy, does it?