Everyone was in their place. Everything had a place. Then my biological father died.
I am not going to tell you anything that smells of manure. I am going to tell you how I feel. I don't feel much about my father's death, and when my mother goes, I will feel even less.
I can already feel some of you cringing and see some of you falling to knees to say a quick prayer for me; don't bother. Myself doesn't need your prayers, myself needs all of you to ask me what my boundaries are and when I tell you, myself needs you to abide by them. Leave your packet of platitudes for the hour after my death when I will finally be out of earshot.
If you would like to know why I feel this way, just ask. What's the point of wonder when you don't use your tongue? And don't be asking any questions to pass judgment. Be asking to understand me.
I was not raised by either parent after the age of eleven. At the age of eleven, this is when the heroes, heroines, and those that raised me, and whom I consider family, stepped in. It was Sue, and Will, Yvette, and Betty-Jean; there was Beryl and there were strangers who did nothing for me other than say the right thing at the right moment in time. Every day, of every year, I have carried these people with me in my heart and mind. When I got to be older, other sisters and brothers came into my life. They were Delilah, Margaret, Diane, Gina, Freda, Eric, Gary and Paul. These are my family. These are the people I care about and cherish.
I have four older brothers who were raised by the same two parents. I never knew them past the age of nine or ten, other than to see them maybe once a year, if that. I have never called upon any of them in any hour of need and I have no plans to. Is it because I am mean? No. It's because I know them as well as I know the error codes on my washing machine. I have no emotional connection with two of my brothers. Two I do. One because he was so severely damaged by these two parents that I just plumb feel sorry for him. Every portion of my heart wants to hold him and make his suffering go away. He is schizophrenic, and when he hears voices he tells me he hears our biological mother telling him he is a piece of shit, which she did often and frequently. Another brother, I have re-bonded with, and I am secure and comfortable enough to say that I think we will make it 'til the end, as friends. The other two?
So I find myself nonplused, and frankly, galled by this sudden re-mergence of people wanting to interfere with my life whom I do not have any memory of having known as anything other than people I am vaguely related to. When our father died something happened to them as well. From my perspective those other two came out of the woodwork to conduct the business of mayhem upon each other and the rest of us. Two have this grand idea that I want to be included in this. I don't. I have paid my dues. I have been stress free from that crap for eons. They are worse than, way too similar to, those that wish to share their religion with you imagining you lost. They cling like snot. Their faces never register as honest. Rather, they have vagueness emanating from their eyes. Their eyes can't hold a gaze for long. Hugs are given and you feel the worse for the embrace. Worse still, when you question their fanaticism you have to suffer through 25 seconds of speech disfluency fillers -which now that I think of it, are the red flags needed to begin looking for exit strategies. Twenty-five seconds is all the time I need.
These relatives of mine made choices that I was not afforded when I was wee. I made my own choices. Sometimes these choices were made by my wits, and sometimes they were made as only a child can make choices. Inadequately. But I am at peace with the choices I have made. They were mine. These men, being older, have some sort of notion that they are in better shoes to make decisions. Part of me wonders if this invasion is really their needing to hold onto something, or replace one loss (the father) with a thing that they define as family (me). I can empathize with this hypothetical notion, but it does not change the fact that I don't wish to participate. Too often these parasitic relationships endure out of mutual misery, but I do not want to fill the voids of people who flounder in their own darkness and regret. Those sorts of relationships are based upon stunted growth. I have found wings and I am no longer earth bound. Unlike Icarus, I heed my proximity to the sun.
The angels given me, guided me towards adulthood, gave me sturdy shoes. I was given instructions to not stray from paths. Always, I was reminded of boundaries. I was encouraged and practically guaranteed that honesty and following my instincts would get me through anything and everything. It has. I don't have regrets about my life any longer. I don't wish for different biological parents. I never ponder 'what ifs', and I really, truly feel that given the tools and circumstances of my life, I am a miracle. I wandered, I trudged, I got lost, I became covered with the debris of life and I arrived to here, with contentment. I stand today whole and happy. I made it despite my beginnings. And I do not owe any gratitude to anyone other than those that loved me. Sharing parents does not constitute anything other than happenstance. Being blood related should not, and does not mean you have the right to ignore boundaries. I never picked those parents, and other than my name, I was given nothing by them. I am the one that picked myself up, dusted myself off and began all over again. From scratch.
I want to be left alone: to no longer be distracted by those that just seem to have a salivary penchant for draining things. Kind, thoughtful words have gotten me nowhere. Long letters filled with 'please' and 'thank you's' have fallen on deaf ears. Right now, I am in the throes of seeing what impact 'going ape shit' might have. Hence the weight of my tongue.*
For the last thirty odd years, I have had friends, though not always physically near, whom have had clear boundaries of their own and protected mine. Having moved to a new country that is littered with ex-pats starving for community, I have had the misfortune of meeting some truly horrible people. And my guard was down. When one is surrounded by love and care, one can make the mistake, like I have, that this environment is a given. (I have known some of the greatest people roaming this earth). It isn't. When one steps towards the new and unknown one must remember to bring the same tools one used before to weigh, and measure. To view and evaluate. An up-to-date toolkit that contains a shit detector, is a must have in this life.
Outside of what is known and come to be comfortable are oodles of people looking for fresh bait. Only God knows who manufactures such people but I am sure that the assembly line runs in 24 hour shifts. These types sneak up on you, feign interest, and before you know it, you are getting a tongue lashing for failing to to be the fodder they were expecting, angry at having wasted a half hour on you. Two encounters of this craziness and I now leave the house with pepper spray. Just a quick imaginary squirt and poof!
I had to retreat back to my lovely, safe haven here, and rethink strategies. I do not have the inclination towards diplomacy. I can muster it if I care, but usually I can find no reason to. We are talking riff-raff here. Who cares about riff-raff? Caring is reserved for those that respect you, your boundaries, and have your well being in mind. I'm a pearl. My face can't contort into feigned interest or starry-eyed bliss to amuse strangers. Like those that wear their hearts on their sleeve, I wear my emotions on my face. Caring is a mutual endeavor, a back and forth thing. It is never one-sided in a literal sense. It takes and gives. This taking and giving does not always have to be tit for tat. It never has a score card. All it has to be is something that evens itself out at the end of the day.
At this time in life I want laughter, and no one that feigns interest in anything. I want people who speak straight and true and do so knowing I am not going to leave for it. I want to travel and pet my cats. I want to enter my kitchen, cook up a storm and sit down eating with loved ones. I want joy given and I want all that I have on reserve, shared. I have done the best I can. Any spare threads I find dangling from my self, I will snip off. I have scissors. The pair you own, be using them to snip your own threads.
I am not going to tell you anything that smells of manure. I am going to tell you how I feel. I don't feel much about my father's death, and when my mother goes, I will feel even less.
I can already feel some of you cringing and see some of you falling to knees to say a quick prayer for me; don't bother. Myself doesn't need your prayers, myself needs all of you to ask me what my boundaries are and when I tell you, myself needs you to abide by them. Leave your packet of platitudes for the hour after my death when I will finally be out of earshot.
If you would like to know why I feel this way, just ask. What's the point of wonder when you don't use your tongue? And don't be asking any questions to pass judgment. Be asking to understand me.
I was not raised by either parent after the age of eleven. At the age of eleven, this is when the heroes, heroines, and those that raised me, and whom I consider family, stepped in. It was Sue, and Will, Yvette, and Betty-Jean; there was Beryl and there were strangers who did nothing for me other than say the right thing at the right moment in time. Every day, of every year, I have carried these people with me in my heart and mind. When I got to be older, other sisters and brothers came into my life. They were Delilah, Margaret, Diane, Gina, Freda, Eric, Gary and Paul. These are my family. These are the people I care about and cherish.
I have four older brothers who were raised by the same two parents. I never knew them past the age of nine or ten, other than to see them maybe once a year, if that. I have never called upon any of them in any hour of need and I have no plans to. Is it because I am mean? No. It's because I know them as well as I know the error codes on my washing machine. I have no emotional connection with two of my brothers. Two I do. One because he was so severely damaged by these two parents that I just plumb feel sorry for him. Every portion of my heart wants to hold him and make his suffering go away. He is schizophrenic, and when he hears voices he tells me he hears our biological mother telling him he is a piece of shit, which she did often and frequently. Another brother, I have re-bonded with, and I am secure and comfortable enough to say that I think we will make it 'til the end, as friends. The other two?
So I find myself nonplused, and frankly, galled by this sudden re-mergence of people wanting to interfere with my life whom I do not have any memory of having known as anything other than people I am vaguely related to. When our father died something happened to them as well. From my perspective those other two came out of the woodwork to conduct the business of mayhem upon each other and the rest of us. Two have this grand idea that I want to be included in this. I don't. I have paid my dues. I have been stress free from that crap for eons. They are worse than, way too similar to, those that wish to share their religion with you imagining you lost. They cling like snot. Their faces never register as honest. Rather, they have vagueness emanating from their eyes. Their eyes can't hold a gaze for long. Hugs are given and you feel the worse for the embrace. Worse still, when you question their fanaticism you have to suffer through 25 seconds of speech disfluency fillers -which now that I think of it, are the red flags needed to begin looking for exit strategies. Twenty-five seconds is all the time I need.
These relatives of mine made choices that I was not afforded when I was wee. I made my own choices. Sometimes these choices were made by my wits, and sometimes they were made as only a child can make choices. Inadequately. But I am at peace with the choices I have made. They were mine. These men, being older, have some sort of notion that they are in better shoes to make decisions. Part of me wonders if this invasion is really their needing to hold onto something, or replace one loss (the father) with a thing that they define as family (me). I can empathize with this hypothetical notion, but it does not change the fact that I don't wish to participate. Too often these parasitic relationships endure out of mutual misery, but I do not want to fill the voids of people who flounder in their own darkness and regret. Those sorts of relationships are based upon stunted growth. I have found wings and I am no longer earth bound. Unlike Icarus, I heed my proximity to the sun.
The angels given me, guided me towards adulthood, gave me sturdy shoes. I was given instructions to not stray from paths. Always, I was reminded of boundaries. I was encouraged and practically guaranteed that honesty and following my instincts would get me through anything and everything. It has. I don't have regrets about my life any longer. I don't wish for different biological parents. I never ponder 'what ifs', and I really, truly feel that given the tools and circumstances of my life, I am a miracle. I wandered, I trudged, I got lost, I became covered with the debris of life and I arrived to here, with contentment. I stand today whole and happy. I made it despite my beginnings. And I do not owe any gratitude to anyone other than those that loved me. Sharing parents does not constitute anything other than happenstance. Being blood related should not, and does not mean you have the right to ignore boundaries. I never picked those parents, and other than my name, I was given nothing by them. I am the one that picked myself up, dusted myself off and began all over again. From scratch.
I want to be left alone: to no longer be distracted by those that just seem to have a salivary penchant for draining things. Kind, thoughtful words have gotten me nowhere. Long letters filled with 'please' and 'thank you's' have fallen on deaf ears. Right now, I am in the throes of seeing what impact 'going ape shit' might have. Hence the weight of my tongue.*
For the last thirty odd years, I have had friends, though not always physically near, whom have had clear boundaries of their own and protected mine. Having moved to a new country that is littered with ex-pats starving for community, I have had the misfortune of meeting some truly horrible people. And my guard was down. When one is surrounded by love and care, one can make the mistake, like I have, that this environment is a given. (I have known some of the greatest people roaming this earth). It isn't. When one steps towards the new and unknown one must remember to bring the same tools one used before to weigh, and measure. To view and evaluate. An up-to-date toolkit that contains a shit detector, is a must have in this life.
Outside of what is known and come to be comfortable are oodles of people looking for fresh bait. Only God knows who manufactures such people but I am sure that the assembly line runs in 24 hour shifts. These types sneak up on you, feign interest, and before you know it, you are getting a tongue lashing for failing to to be the fodder they were expecting, angry at having wasted a half hour on you. Two encounters of this craziness and I now leave the house with pepper spray. Just a quick imaginary squirt and poof!
I had to retreat back to my lovely, safe haven here, and rethink strategies. I do not have the inclination towards diplomacy. I can muster it if I care, but usually I can find no reason to. We are talking riff-raff here. Who cares about riff-raff? Caring is reserved for those that respect you, your boundaries, and have your well being in mind. I'm a pearl. My face can't contort into feigned interest or starry-eyed bliss to amuse strangers. Like those that wear their hearts on their sleeve, I wear my emotions on my face. Caring is a mutual endeavor, a back and forth thing. It is never one-sided in a literal sense. It takes and gives. This taking and giving does not always have to be tit for tat. It never has a score card. All it has to be is something that evens itself out at the end of the day.
At this time in life I want laughter, and no one that feigns interest in anything. I want people who speak straight and true and do so knowing I am not going to leave for it. I want to travel and pet my cats. I want to enter my kitchen, cook up a storm and sit down eating with loved ones. I want joy given and I want all that I have on reserve, shared. I have done the best I can. Any spare threads I find dangling from my self, I will snip off. I have scissors. The pair you own, be using them to snip your own threads.
*(See James Joyce's, Ulysses, Cyclops).
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