No longer a soloist

I am trying to prepare myself for the week ahead. 

Several months ago, my family was dealt a devastating blow that has turned into the most beautiful of songs.  Next week the chorus changes and I just don't know how I am going to be able to pick up the melody.

First of all, if you know anything about me, you know that I am completely tone deaf.  Like, I can't sing at all.  If I were to karoake, they would kick me out of the bar because the patrons would riot-that kind of bad.  So this entire writing about a song is a metaphor for what I am going through--just to be completely clear.  😁

OK--back to the song of it.

For my entire life, I was kind of a soloist.  I did my thing.  I had friends but I never quite fit in anywhere-awkward looking and acting.  I never knew my place in the world.  My mom was crazy and my family life was not great-blah, blah, blah.  I made the people who were my friends into my family.  I still do this.  The people in my life were the strings and the winds and the horns of whatever tune my existence was at the moment.  They made my life much more lovely because they were in it.  They became the melody of the song I thought I was singing alone.  

And then this year, my brother and sister-in-love (because she is more than a sister-in-law to me--she is my sister in every perfect way she can be) became local to San Diego to handle some things they had to handle.  The things they had to handle are their story to tell, but suffice it to say, we banded together and tackled it as a unit-the way I always hoped to have family around me.  We took care of each other.  And suddenly I had someone nearby who was singing in harmony with me.  I was no longer a soloist.  And I didn't ever realize that I 

    1: could harmonize and 

    2: there was someone who wanted to harmonize with me.  

And together, the song is beautiful.  It’s better than I ever could have dreamed it would be-it’s my absolute favorite anthem.

Next week, they head onto the next chapter of their story in another state-the one they called home for many years before 2023.  

I am trying to look at the bright side of it all.  Things are in a better place for them to make this change.  There is goodness on their horizon.  They will be surrounded by other family to help them in every instance in which they might need help.  

We had so many beautiful adventures together.  And now we aren't only family, but we are friends.  Trusted friends.  My brother and sister-in-love have always been mentors to me from afar.  I don't think they ever even knew I looked up to them in that way.  But they do now-and that matters.  

We have conversations the way I have always hoped we would.  He is the uncle and she is the aunt to my kids in the most loving and "I am watching out for you kind of way."  -Not to mention, the humor they share when they are together...  

Next week my song changes.  

The chorus might change a bit.  The bridge might have a different tune.  The key to the melody might be in a different octave.  

We will be separated by miles.  There will be more phone calls and Facetimes then stolen lunches out together-or Kissy's famous spaghetti dinners.  

There will still be harmony.  

The song is now a masterpiece.

Take My Breath Away

I caught a glimpse of my mother the other day.  It took my breath away because I saw her in my own face as I looked in the mirror.  I literally gasped.  A few days later it happened again and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.  

What do I do when I start wearing the face of someone who caused so much pain in the lives of the people I love, and to me?  

My mother hurt people.  She lived a life of self-entitlement.  She acted as if everyone should serve her in every way.  She held grudges.  She was not kind, nor nice-because there is a difference between the two.  She didn’t forgive people.  She didn’t afford grace to the people she was supposed to love.  She constantly kept tabs on what people owed her and told them about it whenever she could.  Life was tit for tat.  For me, I wasn’t pretty enough or thin enough.  I was always the smart one, but it boxed me into a space where I felt the need to be perfect and do everything “right”.  I rebelled by not doing homework or projects for school and staying out past curfew, but in my mind I still tried to be proper in everything else.  

Car rides were silent. There was no music or speaking when we were in the car with the parental units.  Joking at the dinner table, the rare times we ate together, was not something that happened.  When I look back on it with clarity, I see there was no joy in the house where I grew up.  

Somewhere along the way, the worst thing people in my family would say to each other was that we resembled her in some way.  It was the insult of all insults to be compared to her.  It was often said in my direction, especially when people didn’t get what they wanted from me:  I was too emotional.  I was mentally unstable.  “You are just like your mother.”  

I am emotional.  Emotional is an adjective that means subject to or easily affected by emotions.  I love and grieve and I am happy and sad.  That it has tuned into an ugly judgement on people is sad commentary-which is for an entirely different conversation.  There was a time when me and my kids were traumatized by an abusive marriage-and for a time we were mentally unstable (we have come a long way from that time).  But I strived to never be like my mother.  Those words always did what they intended.  They cut me like a knife.  My heart always broke a little when someone would say that to me.  I learned that to be liked and loved I had to be quiet and stifle who I was.  I didn’t even know who I was.  

In my young twenties, I learned I had a voice.  I vividly remember a conversation with my ex-husband.  We were driving in Omaha, where we lived.  We just left his parents’ house and he was going on about something ridiculous-clearly those details didn’t resonate-and he looked at me and said, “You don’t have to agree with me.”  It was a lightbulb moment for me.  I started to use my voice, although tact and understanding of my voice and what I thought didn’t come for many years later.

Kindness, Grace, Forgiveness-they are all actions that need to be practiced and exercised in order to be rote.  I was fiery and angry at the world and stubborn and headstrong in all the wrong ways.  I took a hard look at myself and the things I wanted to be and didn’t want to be and started the changes that had to be made in order to live in happiness.  I had a lot of practice and exercise to start.  

Life wasn’t easy for us in the beginning, as we started a new life in San Diego.  We were healing from years of trauma.  But I was determined to start anew with a fresh perspective.  I decided to not let the crap I grew up with become a crutch where unhappiness and anger and ugliness was the only answer.  When people walked away from us, I decided to be there for them with love and kindness when they returned.  When I lost jobs, I decided to not let my fear guide my days.  When I needed to forgive people, I forgave without needing to be forgiven.  When I gave to someone in currency or experience or emotion, I didn’t expect to be repaid or need anything in return.  I shared freely, what little I had.  It didn’t always return to us in any form, and that was a lesson to learn along the way, as well-that it didn’t need to in order for me to do the right thing.  I learned to be humble.  There was nothing else I could be when we had only each other.  We were the underdogs in a brand new world, making mistakes everyday.  We still had joy.

We found happiness in the new adventures that San Diego had to offer.  We spent afternoons at the beach and every week at Balboa Park.  We sang songs in the car and re-enacted funny skits with strangers.  Laughter became part of our days.  

I started to live my life with intention.  I intended to have peace, joy, kindness and happiness and noise in my life.  I learned to not have to tell my side of the story to have tranquillity.  We laughed and sang and danced and we still do.  It attracted the people to me and to us who lifted us up.  It created a circle of safety where we could be sad if we needed to be and rejoiced in our happiness when there were things to celebrate.  And because life is life and bad things happen sometimes, we learned how to lean on those people and handle things and not to let us be burdened with the bad things that happen forever.  

-Deep Breath-

All of that to say:  I finally know who I am and I am not my mother.  

I have bad days.  I have many more good days.  I have beautiful friendships.  I have family who love me;  I am not defined by those who do not.  

I live my life with an intention of kindness, most days-because I am human.  I allow myself to grieve and be sad, but I don’t allow it to engulf me.  I don’t get angry when things break, because they are only things.  I say yes more often than I say no.  I pet all the dogs.  I run with children.  I smile and I laugh and I dance and I wear silly outfits with lots of color. 

These are all things that are polar opposite of my mother.  She did NONE of these things.  

So if I am wearing her face occasionally, as I age—at least there is someone who sometimes resembles her who is putting out the good things in the world that she was never capable of doing.  As I see her in my reflection, I will no longer gasp.  I will continue to be who she never was:  KIND, FORGIVING, COMPASSIONATE, JOYOUS.

And now?  A little more confident.