What I Learned From My Father
reflecting on my new Swiss army knife
In the last couple of months, I’ve needed a tool to accomplish a small task on multiple occasions. Anchoring the plastic piece that holds in the window AC unit. Removing the cork from a bottle of wine. Cutting a ribbon from a wrapped gift. Getting the lid off a shipment that was packaged too tightly. Tightening the plastic screw that holds the toilet seat. Prying open the wire enclosure on a necklace that needed a chain lengthener.
Every time, I struggled to make do with what I had—one flathead screwdriver, one set of kitchen knives, and the handful of tools that came with the various things I own that needed assembly. An Allen wrench here, a cheap plastic Phillips head there.
Every time, I thought of my father and his Swiss army knife. How he handled small tasks with ease and aplomb. How proud I was, back when I was still young enough to believe that his love could be earned, that my dad was prepared for everything.
His Swiss army knife seemed like a talisman from the magical world of men, a key that could open any lock, a problem-solving mechanism that was special, and desirable, and proof of adult competence.
Every time one of these small tasks came up, I felt the intense cognitive dissonance of wishing I had one and being glad that I did not.
When it was clear that I needed one, as it had been for some time, why didn’t I just buy myself one?
I was afraid, with all the irrationality of trauma-based reasoning, that if I bought myself one it would somehow make me become someone like him.
The essence of PTSD is that it makes you stupid—afraid of all the wrong things, to the wrong degree—and I got tired of being stupid.
So I ordered myself one.
And when it arrived, it brought with it a few surprises.