Thursday, November 21, 2013

Sobs for a Broken Past and Better Tomorrow

I just had one of those knock down, drag out sob fests.  The kind where you don't know why you're crying, or even what the straw that broke the camel's back was, but you're sobbing like the world could never be fixed.  The kind where you can tell it's been building for a while, you break down because you've been too strong for too damn long, and after the storm clears, the world is back on it's axis.
I talked to God/ The 'Verse/ myself for quite a while sitting in that tub.  Out loud like a madwoman, but it helped more to get it out than to letit circle around chasing it's tail in my head.
I talked about money worries.
I talked about grief for the childhood I deserved but never got.
I thought, not talked, about a mother that was rarely "there" enough.
I talked about needing to be good, needing to be perfect, so Mom and Dad wouldn't need their respective escapes.
I talked about how I couldn't remember half my childhood without wondering whether it was the truth or a lie to cover it up.
I talked about flat out not being able to remember much of it, and how maybe that was because of the lies to cover it up.
I talked about being ashamed/ scared to bring friends home. Dad cracked open a beer as soon as he got home and changed.  What if it was a bad emotion night?  What would they think of me for having a drunkard of a father?  Mom's moods moved as quickly as Texas  weather, and were rarely positive enough for her to interact with us. What if it was a bad night? What if they thought less of me for having a depressed nutjob for a mother?
I talked about worrying about fucking up the kids I teach because of my past.
I talked mostly about the lies though, the spoken and unspoken ones. The ones within the nuclear unit, the ones we told the world, the ones we showed the world.  There were enough of them, between the ones I told/ showed other and the ones I told myself, that I have trouble trusting my own memories.  There were some that I've had to keep that I'd really prefer not to, but I keep them anyways, out of the interest of familial peace. There were others we acted.  My first acts as a thespian were at a young age: "Don't tell Dad," "Don't tell Mom," 'we're going over to Gramma and Grampa's, everyone act normal!'
I repeated the serenity prayer, meditating on every word as it exited my mouth.  I found my calm.  I found my peace.

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