Yeah, so I’m waxing a little nostalgic tonight. I just put the boys to bed, cracked open a nice cold beer (Samuel Adams ‘Summer Ale’ is the fucking bomb, let me tell ya) and sat down to enjoy a little reflection. I rarely reflect on where I’ve been, where I am and where I’m going, preferring instead to just keep my nose to the grindstone and my mind on the task at hand.
I recieved a short letter from my aunt today, wishing me a happy 35th. Of course, the letter also included the usual admonishments about never writing or checking in. My family is a long story, as most others are. The short version is that I’m pissed off and it’s no one’s problem (or fault) but my own. It’s childish really. I had a wonderful, normal childhood…with the exception of the death of my parents. My father died when I was 12…my mother when I was 17. I lived 200 miles away from my extended family (on my father’s side), so I chose to stay put and make a go of it on my own. And I’ve done fairly well. My life is less fucked up than most people…more fucked up than some, but it’s mine. My mom raised me to be very independent…not in a bitchy sort of way…but in a ‘don’t ask for help’ sort of way. I went through a rape, trial and birth of a child pretty much on my own. My relatives didn’t agree with the choices I made, but finally accepted it. That rift left a scar though…something I’ve never really forgiven them for. The birth of my second son was a bit easier all the way around, but the damage had already been done. As it stands right now, my youngest is 8 years old and has never met what’s left of my family.
I love my family. I really do. But if there’s one thing I hate is the feeling that I’m being judged. The funny thing is is that I don’t really think they are judging me…I’m judging myself. Being independent is one of the greatest gifts that my mother gave me…and one of the greatest curses.
Obviously I prefer to do everything on my own. I don’t whine…I don’t cry…I don’t shake my fist at the Gods and holler about how unfair shit is. I just GO ON. Our house burned down about 10 years ago and I didn’t ask for any help. My ex had to jump in and MAKE me let him do SOMETHING. ANYTHING. (A little backstory here: I let him comfort me with a good old fashioned romp in the hay and…9 months later, our son was born). I just picked up where the fire left us off and continued on as if nothing had happened. I do have a close network of friends that are a substitute family and I do have my ex and his family to lean on if need be. But I don’t. And they (like everyone else) take it as my pushing them away sometimes. In all honesty though, when shit happens and my life is falling down around my ears, my first thought is not “Who can fix this for me?”. It’s “What can I do to fix it?”.
I give help to others easily. When one of my friends has a crisis, I’m usually the first one they call. I’m the voice of reason and the rock when it all goes to hell. I’m the shoulder they all cry on and the picker-upper of life’s pieces. This is all just fine with me, but they get all pissed off and indignant when they find out that I’ve had a major crisis and not even called to tell them about it. I can’t win.
Anyways, back to the letter. It’s made me think about how I am and why I’m the way I am. Yes, I am just like my mother and I accepted that a long ass time ago. I don’t want to be seen as being weak or whiny. A lot of my problem with this whole blogging phenomenon is that I take a lot of pride in being emotionally strong in real life, and since I’ve never hidden my identity online, anyone can find me. I’ve always tried to blog while censoring myself and that’s the fastest path to writer’s block that I know of, so…my birthday eve gift to myself is total anonymity. No former, current or future employers, real-life friends or relatives will find me here.
Welcome to the theater of MY soul.
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