an "ah ha" moment

In the early years of my marriage, fresh off my 4 year indoctrination in feminist sociological thinking, I believed (IN MY BONES) that a man could perform tasks traditionally designated to women and vice versa. Regardless of gender stigma, if you try hard enough...

Flash to now. That was a steep learning curve. Though, I still struggle with giving myself permission to create or do/speak/sing/fill in the blank to be satisfied with whatever comes out of me without judgement. I am CONSTANTLY what if-ing and should-ing and and and. I don't just want to survive my life, I want to enjoy it. I continue to create my own suffering and WHY? I want to be not only satisfied, but happy. H.A.P.P.Y.

I am capable of seeing beauty in the world, in imperfection, in the small moments throughout everyday. I just can't give myself a compliment. I only see what is lacking, how it could be better had I done this or not done that. My father wasn't the father I deserved, but he was the father I had. I was angry for so many years. I wanted him to work harder, notice more, pay attention to me, talk to me. Instead of realizing he was doing the best he could with what he had, I saw how he could have done so much more/better.

Similarly, my mother failed me on so many levels. I was so infuriated that no one could tell me about my early childhood. My mother simply could not but I punished her for it for years. I so badly wanted to know what it was like to be held and known through the eyes of my mother. I became so obsessed with this hole in my life--I had this insatiable thirst and she continually let me down. I wanted those memories, those pieces of our life together back. I was so blinded by her limitations, I could never be satisfied with the person she is now. I thought if I pushed her hard enough, she would unlock her secrets. I felt she wasn't working hard enough, that it was all there but she just wasn't invested enough.

Are you sensing a pattern?

While at therapy today my therapist had an interesting observation. I was describing my fathers' internalized voice, telling me nothing was ever good enough, etc.She stopped me cold. Jess said," I am hearing how your father wasn't good enough-didn't try hard enough; your mother could have worked harder, dug deeper to recall those memories. I also know you've been given that feedback from your father all your life."

I stole myself, feeling an ache that I didn't know existed. I never let myself grieve. I didn't have permission. And now, I measure myself against nothing less than perfection. I expected everyone to do more, do it better. Though I forgave them, rationalizing that they were doing their very best with what they had, I failed to forgive myself.

So I guess this is what they mean by an "AH HA" moment. What now?

a writer?

I'm at my laptop out to breakfast in a hip neighborhood coffee shop. I feel like Sara Jessica Parker, feigning thoughtfulness, staring into the middle distance, typing suspended, as she comes up with another pun.

While laboring with my second child a nurse asked if I was a writer. Apparently, I expressed the feeling of each contraction so exquisitely, it begged the question. Huh. I have been known to blather on. I was voted Most Annoying for my 8th grade superlative. Ouch. I'm over it, clearly.

I do tend to turn things over...and over and over and over and sometimes out loud. I crave detail. It's true. I feel the need to defend myself with that statement. Why is that? What's wrong with wanting to know more? Fill in the edges--give us some color. Expand damn it! My husband is one of those people. You know them. They come back from a meeting/day/fill in the blank and EVEN WHEN PRESSED by a wife in wait with rapt attention, has "nothing much" (NOTHING!) to say.

Really?

Then BAM! Four days later when you're super into a new novel/show/sleep/fill in the blank they start in about THAT day. You know, from FOUR days earlier. The one where "nothing much" happened. Now you're ready to chat? Drop a little 2 hour story in my lap.

REALLY!

Enough of my pet-peeves. Even I'm getting bored. The question I mean to answer is WHY ME? Why do I crave detail--need to know more just to see it in my mind? Just a bit more from every angle just to understand. Why do I want to understand? Why do I care what tone the barista used when asking, "foam or no foam? ".

I'm going to sound super cliched here, but it all goes back to my mother. Just before my 5th birthday she had an aneurism. She survived but not as my mother. My mom died that day and in her place sprung a perpetually younger sibling (say, 9ish) with developmental delays and traumatic brain injury. More on that another time. Needless to say, I don't remember much before the age of 5 or 6. Which astounds me, now. It wasn't until I had children and realized just how much happens in those precious years. My father never spoke of my mother. Ever. My grandparents could have filled me in some, but it didn't occur to me to even ask until there was no one left to answer. My grandmother, Junita, died in her nursing room bed after many years of gradually and then swiftly forgetting her whole life. I clung to her stiff, unresponsive hand. I was scared to touch her, though she was once the only voice that comforted me. So changed now. Stolen. Missing. Replaced.

I think my wanting to fill in the details--the blanks, is because I feel like I have something missing. And I do.

I wonder if this craving will  ever be satiated? I will never know my early years according to my mother. I thought that sentence would continue. But my heart feels struck. I don't have any more questions right now. No more stories to tell. Right now I'm struggling for air.

 Just Breathe. In and out. Add hope this passes.