I think back periodically to the post I made here years ago. One of the three I remember vividly of those I put up here, about my mother and equating her to a spider like infestation in to peoples lives. My opinion hasn’t changed, if anything my resolve on the opinion is stronger, as she continues to wage her little wars and games, even against me at times despite my having crossed to the furthest corners of the states, three continents, and countless countries. While I consider a very important apex to the problems I had growing up, there is so spare of blame to pass around to a slew of other parties, including my father, siblings, step family, grandparents, and everyone else who expressed their relationships with each other in the form of anger, hate, manipulation, money, and warfare. Its funny, because you’d think given the poverty of the family, there would be more important concerns, but even as I say that I look at how much emphasis I put on my own pride and stubbornness over the years even at the expense of so many others. I know the final blame for my choices in life remain my own. My choices and actions while confusing to others made sense to me, because my decision making process is fractured from the start. Its like telling someone to solve calculus problems after teaching them that 1 + 1 = 3. No matter how hard they try, or how close they come, the answers will never make sense to other people.
I wonder now what I hate my family for more. It used to be for not giving me the childhood others had, a childhood where at least one person cared. It has been so long since it all happened it is dreamlike now, and I find myself now suddenly refreshed in my anger for realizing that perhaps more tragically then loosing your childhood, is having your adulthood set up for failure from the start of it as a result of your childhood. You escape their clutches, thinking that being free from them will allow you to put everything right and finally find happiness, but you carry with you a dark seed that festers and grows to infect every thing you do. I feel I have let this grow in me so long, I have ruined a lifetime of decisions for myself, and for others that I have crossed or entangled in my life.
I know a lot of people who complain about things their parents didn’t do for themselves. It’s the popular thing to profess your own self tragedy, and desperate to get attention for how you have been victimized more then others. I have never been so interested in getting attention for it, preferring to hide it and not talk about it. I saw people complain about things, so trivial, that I just scoffed and kept quiet. Rather then a need for attention, I survived with anger and I would at times vent it at those who complained for any affront lesser then mine. I survived it and live, by god they should to I felt. No point in whining about it, just stop being weak and get up. Perhaps I did it as a way ensuring that I would never have to talk about my problems if no one else could talk about theirs. Whatever the reasons it created a unpleasant environment for anyone around me who ever had need to help, as I spent all my time examining others through myself. Its funny, I had often talked about people doing that in their methods with dealing with others. They have a notorious tendency to believe people can only do or will do what they can or would do. I often felt I didn’t do that, and truth enough I don’t think I do. What I tend to do instead is use myself as the standard of which to judge them by, considering that if they do not conform to what I have endured they are failing in some respect of their understanding of growth as a person. Perhaps it soothed my sense of self, granting me a feeling of a degree of elitism in a world I felt seemed to see other of it.
I don’t really have a reason for writing all this. This journal is all but abandoned and unread, so I don’t put this here for any particular audience. I certainly don’t have the time or ambition to go out and get one. Maybe in some fashion, I think that like Tibetan monks beliefs, that merely by putting it out there it changes something about the world. Maybe on the off chance someone else will read it and think it reminds themselves of themselves, and stop them before making similar mistakes. It’s a difficult thing to see yourself as being flawed, sometimes it takes such great events to awaken yourself to the depth of damage done to you. Its too easy to dismiss mental wounds as being inconsequential because they are not tangible, and can not be quantified. You can not measure them with a ruler, stitch them up with twine, nor tend to them with surgery. The evaluation of such wounds are entirely susceptible to human perception, and are also subject to how they relate to the particular individual. This makes it so hard to determine how much damage has been done, even by the person who has received the wound. It is far easier to think it is less then it is, then to think it is worse. That perhaps is a truest of tragedies, to ponder how many people go through not being healed. I start to question in light of that, what is healthy, is there anyone without wounds due to its subjectivity ? Maybe happiness as described on TV only exists there, in a perfect world where issues are resolved in 30 minutes or less, and people always come around to being healed from the tragedies that might prevent them from having all their hopes and dreams. In the real world perhaps happiness is so much more subjective as well, the trick is not being healthy enough to create more happiness, but to be healthy enough to see it when those few moments come, cherish and savor them, and make sure those with you are able to as well. Or maybe this really is nothing more then self therapy for me to somehow sort out my mind slowly in a series of rambling essays. Que Sera.