Monday, November 8, 2010

Where I've come from

I think it's indicative of my generation to be very self-analytical, very good at introspection, bordering on self absorption. I try to balance that with being a good listener, and curb the impulse to be needy and want to focus all on me-me-me. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it works so well that I find it hard to open up when the possibility of sharing, and bearing with one another, is presented to me.

So imagine my surprise when last week I got a near literal bolt from the blue.

One of the things that I've always felt I had to work at was understanding my childhood. It's formative, you know? Thinking patterns, reactions, habits, they all started somewhere. Some in good circumstances, some in not-so-good. I thought I had a handle on most of it until last week, when I realized something in my approach to God.

It's always been a struggle for me to 'go to God', in prayer, in worship, in anything, really. Even though I KNOW God to be a God of love, mercy, compassion, grace, forgiveness, etc, there's a large part of me that approaches not unlike how Dorothy approached the Wizard of Oz. Fear, trembling, cringing, trepidation, desiring to run but having to overcome the cowardice. Much like how Dorothy's experience in Oz was tainted by her real life (or was it?) my view of God has been shaped by my family, and my views of familial relationships.

First things first. I love my parents. My mom and dad are my biggest supporters. I go to them for advice on just about everything, even when I know we're going to approach it from very different perspectives and worldviews. I love that we can be honest and vulnerable about things together, and while I have yet to directly speak to them about my addictions, they know there's something there, and that I've attended groups over it, prayed about it, and generally bear the thorn in my flesh as best I can. But as wonderful as they are, they are not all powerful. They were not able (nor should they have been) to stop the events that unfolded when I was a kid, and we became estranged from my dad's family.

We've talked about it, since growing older and having to lay to rest both of my dad's parents, my Grandma Rosemary and Grandpa Doc. And we've all come to a certain measure of peace about it. If I still sometimes want to write a long impassioned email or letter to certain relatives bawling them out for it all, I have managed thus far to restrain myself. Some wounds have been healed, like those caused by one of my uncles, and those of my grandparents very passive attention to us. It's hard to remain upset when you know that things weren't as they seemed at age 7, 12, or even 16. And it's especially hard to feel anything but pity when you know that your grandmother suffered from bladder cancer for over 30 years, longer than I've been alive. When I think about how much was lost in all of it, I do want to cry a bit. But I've tried to let it go, and move on.

The revelation I had in particular is tied to my father. My father is one of the kindest people I know. I've gotten my tendencies to be anal retentive and grumbly from him, but I've also gotten my work ethic, my desire to help people, and my willingness to compromise. But it didn't come without a cost.

When I was in 6th grade, my father sold his half of the family business to one of my uncles, and took a year off work. He went from working 60+ hours a week, to being around to take us to sports practices, pick us up from school, to being involved in our lives. And at the tender age of 12, I began to learn who he was. I knew who mom was, because we spent a lot of time with her family, and the history, the stories, they were absorbed by osmosis. I look a lot like my mom. We think a lot alike. I knew who she was, but I didn't know Dad. And the process of learning him, his taste in music, that we shared an ability to debate and converse even when we were really just BS-ing, it was a wonderful thing.

And so it went. But the thing that only occurred to me this past week was this. I gained my father, but at the cost of all the pain that had gone before. All the events that led up to him selling the business and being so available, they hurt all of us. My older brother was cut off from cousins, my dad from siblings, my mom through my dad, and me through all of them. Most of the rage I've felt over the years at the estrangement was on their behalf. How dare someone not love my family like I did. How dare they treat them like crap. It made family gatherings, the few we attended and were invited to, very interesting to say the least.

But remember Dorothy. She was fearful of the Wizard. Why? His real life counterpart had just foretold pain into Auntie Em's life. And it hurt Dorothy enough to grow up, and return home like she should.

I was always more 'grown up' than my peers. At least in my own mind. I never was interested in the same things my age group was concerned with. I resisted some hallmarks of growing up, but skipped over others completely. I preferred books to any form of socialization. Still do, come to that. But in any case, I think the pain I saw in my family, in how I came to grow close to my father, convinced me that there really was no gain without pain.

Sometimes, though, I just really wish it was easier than that. Fearing pain as a result of stepping out, being vulnerable, it's draining. Fear, in general, is draining. So is anger. Being afraid makes me angry at myself, and knowing where some of that came from, at least on an unconscious level, I am hoping will give me the freedom to try a bit harder. Not every situation is like the ones I had growing up. When I was around 8, I knew there was division, but I also knew it was between Aunt L and Mom and Dad. I thought I was well out of it. Until one day. I was ignored. Completely and utterly treated as though I didn't exist. I doubt anyone but me remembers that day, but to be made a victim of someone's wrath as a byproduct of a feud they had with my parents seared into my brain. It was probably the first time I really understood how unfair life was. And it went on from there. If I saw certain relatives about (some worked where I shopped), it was awkward, and a bit scary. What if the kid gloves came off, and rather than feeling it all as a byproduct of anger directed at another, it would be directed at me?

Clearly these things have come back up for me. I've cried over it all, prayed over it all, journalled and journalled over it all. If I've come to any conclusions it's that we never stop being shaped and defined by our pain, in some way. We just have to get past the thinking that it's a bad thing.

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