Tuesday, February 19, 2013

rambling in transit


Today someone apologized to me.  I felt like crying.  It was confusing.  I was feeling sorry too, sorry that the apology was needed in the first place.  I admit that I did need it.  I didn’t want it, though.  I wanted to stay angry.  I wanted to have what was left of my anger to support me this week.  I wanted to use that anger to protect me and close the door to the emotions that are swirling around in my little brain.  All this writing about my childhood is just ripping off a scab.  Now I’m open, raw and incredibly moody.  I wanted to distract myself with anger.

I do a lot of listening.  I sit and just listen to life: hvac hissing, shoes tapping on the floor and getting softer as they move further away, conversations near and far in voices that are high-pitched, baritone, upward inflections, laughing nervously, stalling for time, beating around the bush, attempting to make a hasty exit or just going around in circles saying the same thing a bunch of different ways.  The tinkle of keys and bracelets, a nose blow, an exasperated sigh, the rustling of a paper bakery sleeve, the creak of a chair and all kinds of echoes all around - the shadows of sounds bouncing off the walls, the ceiling, the windows and muffled by the rugs.

I listen to my brother and mother talking.  I hear the hurt and anger in his voice.  I hear the stubbornness in hers.  I step in to cool things off with a laugh or I drop something to distract them.  I’d rather they bicker at me than with each other.  Some things never change I guess.  I don’t really mind when they fuss at me; I forget it as soon as the conversation changes.  I never forget how they treat each other.  Interesting, right?  It's funny how roles evolve and still remain the same as we "grow up".

I also do a lot of wondering.  Do people choose their parents before they are born? Did I choose my parents?  Why? Were we connected in a former life?  Can one person in this life be split into two or combined with another in the next?  Are there a number of original souls who were split up to make all the people who are living now?  Are we all divisions of the same original soul?  Is that why everything is connected?  How do we tap into the connection between all things?  Is it possible to be aware of a nonlinear existence?  Would I freak out and have a mental breakdown if I got a glimpse at something like that?  Is that what happened to schizophrenics?  Are babies able to look into other dimensions or see auras?  This train of thought can go on forever.
 


I’m sure that everyone has moments when they wonder how their lives would be different if they knew then what they know now.  I’m convinced that I would be even bigger trouble than I was, if that’s possible.  Walking wounded .  I’m not sure why so many people loved me.  It was pretty clear that I didn’t appreciate it - I couldn't.  Okay, maybe I wouldn’t be as much trouble.  Had I known that the time I spent with certain people would be so short, I would have been kinder.  No, I wouldn’t be rich.  No, I wouldn’t be popular.  I would be kind.  I’m not sure when that became enough.  It might have happened just now.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Yin-Yang - Something Given, Something Taken Away


When I was a child, whenever I would have a laughing fit my mom always reminded me that every laugh must be paid for with tears.  It wasn’t until recently that I understood what she was trying to say.  I always thought she was just a buzzkill.  Okay, she was a buzzkill, but she also had a lot of wisdom to share.

In school I loved science.  I still do, but I’ve definitely lost the patience for research.  Science explains stuff in as much or as little detail as you require.  Science is always looking for the reason why something happens.  I like to use science to understand things that are bigger than us.  Religion says that people don’t die but are instead changed somehow.  Some religions say they go to heaven or hell.  Others say they are reborn into new lives.  The way I like to think about it is somewhat scientific – everything and everyone is made of energy.  Energy can be redistributed; it can be released by one object and absorbed by another.  Energy can be transformed.  Energy cannot be destroyed. - it isn't linear like our lives  Science fucking rocks!

Science says that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.  This is what my mom was trying to teach me.  I didn’t learn it at the time because our communication styles are so different.  She was simply stating that there must be balance.  Today I find myself with my face pressed up against the window, looking into the house of my own life at the powerful force of balance.

I woke up this morning feeling a melee of emotions uncharacteristic of my personality: anger, repulsion, anxiety (ok, that one’s actually quite common for me) and shame.  Yesterday I was elated and hopeful, but I am not disappointed that my mood has reversed.  I know with every fiber of my being that balance is working everything out.  There’s no need for alarm.  Besides, what good would that do anyway?

Writing about my life gives me the opportunity to relive experiences that left strong impressions and feel all of those intense emotions again as an adult who understands them better.  I empathize with both my child self and the adults who were responsible for taking care of me, which is monumental.  It’s unfortunate that children are unable to analyze how they feel and determine the cause of their pain.  What’s even more unfortunate is that many adults are also similarly unskilled.   It’s not anyone’s fault really; expressing and acknowledging emotions is just beginning to be a valued skill in our society.  There’s that word again – society.  Pffft!  I guess there'll be more on that in my musings later.

Monday, February 11, 2013

The Most Important Lesson to Teach a Child


When it comes to immediate family, no one feels good about playing favorites.  Although it’s rarely talked about, every kid has their favorite parent and every parent has their favorite child.  Although my dad’s parenting skills were questionable, he was my favorite.  I remember him as a great father in spite of his faults.

Don’t get me wrong, Dad was an extremely flawed individual.  He was a military lifer who joined the service soon after becoming an official adult.  He served in two major wars, one of which he never mentioned.  As far as the numbers go, he left the US as part of a massive platoon with tens of thousands of other young men.  Fourteen of those men returned.  I understand now why he never spoke of it.  After poring through as much frontline media as I could find, I’ve come to respect Dad much more than ever before.  He was a more complex person than I could have imagined.  These new discoveries stengthen my bond with him after his death.

Dad was a dreadful husband.  He and my mother often fought physically when they lived together.  They were ill-matched as a couple.  My mother is one of those people who must push the boundary by pointing out the embarrassments everyone would rather ignore or cover up and repeatedly rehash the same sensitive topics.  It’s no surprise that, on one of her notorious hot button hunts, she found something dangerously painful in my father and picked at it until it burst open like a rotten fruit in the hot sun.  I’m not saying she deserved it; I’m just saying that it’s not surprising.  When Mom threatened to take us (me and my brother) away, Dad lashed out violently and tried to cut her face off with a pocket knife.  Luckily my brother (then a teenager) was there to intervene.  Supposedly I was away at the babysitter's, but I have no recollection of anything: my mother’s stitches, my father’s arrest, weeks that follwed.  The only one memory I have of their terrible breakup is the day that I came home from school to the foul, overpowering odors of blood and feces.  Mom said that Dad, in a drunken stupor, lost his keys so he broke the window and crawled through because he had to use the bathroom so bad that he couldn’t wait.  It wasn’t a nice lie, but it didn’t leave any room for unanswered questions.  I found out much later in life that Dad’s closest friend had taken his keys away to keep him out of the house and away from Mom.  Indeed, he was an awful husband.

Dad wasn’t an ideal father either.  His alcoholism made him inconsistent in what he taught us and unreliable as a babysitter.  He beat my brother mercilessly before I was born.  There was one warm autumn in particular when my brother wore sweaters to school in the heat of Indian Summer to cover up his bloody welts. 

When I was born, something changed.  My mother and brother still talk quietly about it today, now that my father has been dead for several years, like he might overhear them.  He was a hard and cruel man until I came along, they say.  The fact that I adored my father didn’t earn me any points with them.  After Dad left the family home I was lost. He died a few years later and left me completely alienated.  In my early thirties I finally confronted my mom and brother about it, and they admitted to harboring resentment against me my entire life.  I knew it!  I felt it.  I understand that they weren’t capable of feeling any other way under the circumstances, but remembering my position as the helpless child in that situation still makes my stomach turn.  I lived a life completely devoid of empathy. I learned to hide injuries to avoid being punished for them.  Eventually I just hid everything – good or bad.  I lived a double life: 16 year old honor roll cheerleader and suicidal alcoholic – charming.  I love my family dearly, but I also feel a deep sadness for them.  It’s like being hungry for a long time, when the pangs end and there’s an uncomfortable emptiness growing with every passing minute and draining your energy.  You know you need something to eat, but you're too tired to make an effort.

The great thing that my father did, and that any parent can do for their child, was be human.  He made mistakes.  He admitted to making mistakes.  He apologized (to me anyway).  He explained himself.  He revealed his weaknesses.  He told me the truth and allowed me the time and space to think about it and understand it.  He asked my opinion.  He never refused to answer a question, even if he had to go find the answer because he didn’t know it.  When I disappointed him, he sat me down and explained exactly why he was upset.  He made sure that I understood why the punishment he chose was appropriate.  He even gave me the opportunity to object if there was any misunderstanding.  There was transparency with him.  This is why he was my favorite. 
Dad and I grew apart when I began hiding my feelings and behaving defensively.  The last thing he said to me before he died was that I was becoming just like my mother.  Burn.

Even as I face my own demons as an adult, I remember my dad.  I think of how much struggle he endured and how screwed up he was and how much I loved him and still love him.  I used to compare my exes to him often, trying to make a case for tolerating alcoholism, financial irresponsibility, womanizing.  Now that I’ve been solo for a while I realize that his memory serves me better when I use it to look at myself.  All of the things that combine to make me: my quirks, regrets, loves, fears, strengths, vulnerabitilies, they're all part of the package - my human experience.  The same way I loved him as a flawed human being, I must also love myself.  He's still teaching me stuff...