So.......(extra drawn out), my next assignment is to rid myself of my childhood experiences and get them all out on paper (virtual reality paper works for me) and relieve a little of the pressure. This is FAR easier said than done. I acknowledge everything in my life, and I don't feel all that traumatized by anything I have been through, but I have come to realize this is part of my coping method. (Long pause to cook dinner and further procrastinate)...For years I have said that I never wanted to be one of those people that blames my parents for the flaws I have... one of those that thinks I get a free pass to be faulty in this department or that because my foundation wasn't perfect. I have always been aware that many other people in the world have had it far far worse than I. Nonetheless, that doesn't mean I haven't been affected by my experiences..they are a part of me and have shaped who I am today. I will preface this whole thing by saying that I have struggled with my self image. The way I see myself, I wouldn't necessarily describe as weak, but certainly not as strong as those around me seem to be.
I grew up being raised by my grandparents. My father, I never knew until about a month ago =) and my mother was in my life but only at her own convenience. It was pretty clear from a very early point in my life that I was low on her totem pole of priorities. I've always said my Grandmother tried the best she could, I think now I would say she tried the best she knew how. She was from the school of "divorce is not an option". I never in a million years would have wanted her to leave my grandpa, but being the woman I am today, I can honestly say that if I had been in her shoes nothing in the world would have made me stay.
My grandfather was for many reasons my hero, which will sound unimaginable by the end of his blog I'm sure. For other reasons he was hell in cowboy boots. He drank like a fish, by the end of his life he'd had so many D.U.I.'s that his license had been permanently revoked. I can clearly remember the sound of his cowboy boots clomping down the driveway at 3am...and then the sound of him falling. It killed me to hear him fall. He was a very tall man, and very round..he was larger than life in many ways. I was so afraid of him or anyone else I loved getting hurt in any way, be it emotional or physical. I have always been very protective of my family. He would finally make it into the house and then either yell for us to get up, or hit the walls as he walked though the house with his fists until my grandma and I awoke. My 3am purpose was making him drinks, scotch on the rocks...and putting on an old 45 so we could dance in the living room. I was probably five years old at this time. In my mind those memories aren't bad, they're actually slightly warm and fuzzy for a lack of any better regular memories to take their place. The smell of scotch is something that will always remind me of him, and the old music from the 50's and 60's will always be something that we shared a love for that many people my age don't understand. Usually my grandma would make some wise remark to him about not coming home or being too drunk, which led to much yelling and screaming and more times than I can count it ended with her face bleeding and buried in her palms as she cried. There were many times that I dialed 911 and hung up before there was an answer because I was afraid of any part of my little family being taken away and torn apart. I clung very tightly to what I did have. I don't know if he was trying to make up for hitting her or what the deal was, but the night (early morning) usually ended with him driving us in a drunken stupor to his favorite all night restaurant..which I always loved. Other nights, their fights ended with him forcing her into bed while she cried. The next morning everyone would go on with business like nothing had ever happened. None of that ever seemed significant to me, but I knew it wasn't a normal thing other families did. The thought of five year old me sitting on the stairs like a fly on the wall kills me. I would scoop me up and run if I could. It sounds insane, but the pain I feel now, I feel for five year old me..I have a complete disconnect from that little girl then and the woman I am now..like as if it happened to someone else and I just knew the story, smells, sounds, and feelings. I feel cruel saying all of this because while he was awful to many others, he was wonderful to me..he treated me like a little princess and loved me unconditionally, like no one else ever did.
The other half of who I was at that time, was a little girl that longed desperately for a normal family...a father (or grandfather) that could pull himself together in a sober fashion long enough to go places and do things with us. Long enough to be an actual part of my life anytime other than the one week out of the year where he was normal...fair week. I longed for my real father to want me. I, for years, could not wrap my mind around how he could walk away and never wonder what happened to me. I longed for a mother figure who wanted to be in my life, wanted me in hers. Someone that did mother things with me and influenced me in positive ways so I would later in life know what path to follow. My mother never tried. I love her to death, but we have never had a mother/daughter connection in any way shape or form. My Grandma tried, but she didn't have the tools and knowledge to do it in a positive way. She bought me things I wanted and took me wonderful places but I honestly don't think I have hugged or been hugged by her since I was maybe 4 or 5. I don't think I've heard her say she loves me since I was probably 10. My mother says it to me every time we talk on the phone but its the absolute most empty words my ears have ever heard...as if she is required by law to say it to me or something. I am jealous now of the girls I see with moms that call everyday, moms they can tell anything to and get support from. My grandmother did a wonderful job the best she could, but in many senses I had no parents...I mothered myself.
Now, like I said, I don't feel sorry for me, and I don't want anyone to. It sounds bad on paper ;) but in real life it could have been far worse...but that doesn't make it alright. It doesn't mean those adults who made those decisions. I was the kid in the situation..I didn't make any of those choices, I just lived with them. I am working on uncorking the emotion behind it all.. over many years I have completely numbed myself to it and it doesn't hurt the way it should in order for me to heal. My views are skewed and I try to see straight through them so I don't pass this vicious cycle on to my own children. It is my theory that if each generation messes their kids up a little less than their parents messed them up, evolution is inevitable. Right? .... this is not the end of my story but I have had enough spilling of the beans for tonight. Its very cathartic to put it all out there, because it makes me see I'm not weak at all...quite a strong mother in fact all things considered.
I grew up being raised by my grandparents. My father, I never knew until about a month ago =) and my mother was in my life but only at her own convenience. It was pretty clear from a very early point in my life that I was low on her totem pole of priorities. I've always said my Grandmother tried the best she could, I think now I would say she tried the best she knew how. She was from the school of "divorce is not an option". I never in a million years would have wanted her to leave my grandpa, but being the woman I am today, I can honestly say that if I had been in her shoes nothing in the world would have made me stay.
My grandfather was for many reasons my hero, which will sound unimaginable by the end of his blog I'm sure. For other reasons he was hell in cowboy boots. He drank like a fish, by the end of his life he'd had so many D.U.I.'s that his license had been permanently revoked. I can clearly remember the sound of his cowboy boots clomping down the driveway at 3am...and then the sound of him falling. It killed me to hear him fall. He was a very tall man, and very round..he was larger than life in many ways. I was so afraid of him or anyone else I loved getting hurt in any way, be it emotional or physical. I have always been very protective of my family. He would finally make it into the house and then either yell for us to get up, or hit the walls as he walked though the house with his fists until my grandma and I awoke. My 3am purpose was making him drinks, scotch on the rocks...and putting on an old 45 so we could dance in the living room. I was probably five years old at this time. In my mind those memories aren't bad, they're actually slightly warm and fuzzy for a lack of any better regular memories to take their place. The smell of scotch is something that will always remind me of him, and the old music from the 50's and 60's will always be something that we shared a love for that many people my age don't understand. Usually my grandma would make some wise remark to him about not coming home or being too drunk, which led to much yelling and screaming and more times than I can count it ended with her face bleeding and buried in her palms as she cried. There were many times that I dialed 911 and hung up before there was an answer because I was afraid of any part of my little family being taken away and torn apart. I clung very tightly to what I did have. I don't know if he was trying to make up for hitting her or what the deal was, but the night (early morning) usually ended with him driving us in a drunken stupor to his favorite all night restaurant..which I always loved. Other nights, their fights ended with him forcing her into bed while she cried. The next morning everyone would go on with business like nothing had ever happened. None of that ever seemed significant to me, but I knew it wasn't a normal thing other families did. The thought of five year old me sitting on the stairs like a fly on the wall kills me. I would scoop me up and run if I could. It sounds insane, but the pain I feel now, I feel for five year old me..I have a complete disconnect from that little girl then and the woman I am now..like as if it happened to someone else and I just knew the story, smells, sounds, and feelings. I feel cruel saying all of this because while he was awful to many others, he was wonderful to me..he treated me like a little princess and loved me unconditionally, like no one else ever did.
The other half of who I was at that time, was a little girl that longed desperately for a normal family...a father (or grandfather) that could pull himself together in a sober fashion long enough to go places and do things with us. Long enough to be an actual part of my life anytime other than the one week out of the year where he was normal...fair week. I longed for my real father to want me. I, for years, could not wrap my mind around how he could walk away and never wonder what happened to me. I longed for a mother figure who wanted to be in my life, wanted me in hers. Someone that did mother things with me and influenced me in positive ways so I would later in life know what path to follow. My mother never tried. I love her to death, but we have never had a mother/daughter connection in any way shape or form. My Grandma tried, but she didn't have the tools and knowledge to do it in a positive way. She bought me things I wanted and took me wonderful places but I honestly don't think I have hugged or been hugged by her since I was maybe 4 or 5. I don't think I've heard her say she loves me since I was probably 10. My mother says it to me every time we talk on the phone but its the absolute most empty words my ears have ever heard...as if she is required by law to say it to me or something. I am jealous now of the girls I see with moms that call everyday, moms they can tell anything to and get support from. My grandmother did a wonderful job the best she could, but in many senses I had no parents...I mothered myself.
Now, like I said, I don't feel sorry for me, and I don't want anyone to. It sounds bad on paper ;) but in real life it could have been far worse...but that doesn't make it alright. It doesn't mean those adults who made those decisions. I was the kid in the situation..I didn't make any of those choices, I just lived with them. I am working on uncorking the emotion behind it all.. over many years I have completely numbed myself to it and it doesn't hurt the way it should in order for me to heal. My views are skewed and I try to see straight through them so I don't pass this vicious cycle on to my own children. It is my theory that if each generation messes their kids up a little less than their parents messed them up, evolution is inevitable. Right? .... this is not the end of my story but I have had enough spilling of the beans for tonight. Its very cathartic to put it all out there, because it makes me see I'm not weak at all...quite a strong mother in fact all things considered.
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