The Purge… part 2

The chill of Autumn was more easily felt this morning, but with it comes the warmth of sweaters, cosy quilts, warm mugs of hot chocolate to wrap one’s hands around.

With a purge comes the cobwebs and the dust, but these soon clear and a new freshness reveals itself. Even as the leaves turn their dying shades of un-green, they are beautiful beacons of rust, burgundy and gold. Mother Nature re-decorating.

My purge continues…

There are two kinds of family, the kind you chose and the kind you don’t. Sometimes the family you don’t instead chooses you. Perhaps you didn’t want to be chosen. Perhaps even in making a chose to have you they didn’t choose you.

I was chosen, but I wasn’t the one they chose. Confused? Well, this is how you become a Rose-Coloured Daughter. You bend, you twist, you shrink, you develop a character which is not yourself. You’re the person you know they want you to be. It’s instinctive.

I was imperfect perfection. I was perfect imperfection. Everything I was, nothing I was; they were the same. Too often I went to bed at night wondering if the next day would be the day they realized I don’t belong there. That day never came. I was very good at playing my role. They still think that character – that shadow of a self, (not even a shadow of my Self) was me.

My gift to my Self and my gift to me is Me.
I’m still un-wrapping it, and I’m delighted in being permitted to receive the gift of Self.
I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.

The Purge… part 1

I signed up for this blogging thing some time ago, and with full time studies teaming up with my Mommy-duties, well, I just haven’t done much of a thing. So now I’m back at work full-time, still have a similar course load, and Kidlet loves preschool aged daycare, do I have more time? Or am I just more organized because I have less time?

The purpose of this blog began with one major goal and a couple minor ones. My major: find my Self. My minor: write, reach-out, connect, share. It’s nearly October, and with 3 months leaving me in their dust, it’s time to write. But before we wander fully into the cosiness of Autumn, I want to take a couple days to purge the cobwebs.

Seemingly in no particular order; however, I happen to be starting near rather than far, are some of the grittier cobwebs from my past. We’ll wander through the vague, not because the memories are vague, [they’re actually quite fresh for having traveled so long in my person baggage] but because this blog is not about naming names and making me judge and jury to punish ‘the guilty’, it really is about finding my Self. And my Self is a bit messy, a hoard of sadness and bitterness, so let the purge begin.

The un-friend:

You hurt me. But I have a history of teaching people that I am a person to be mistreated. And I changed the rules one day. One day I became fed up with being talked down to, I began to stand up for myself. And, boy, were you all mad at me. How dare I change the rules? How dare I go against the status quo? How dare I expect… respect?

You wanted to do what we used to do: go to restaurants I didn’t enjoy, couldn’t afford… sit in the smoking section even though I have asthma and was watching my adoptive father dying from cancer. And make fun of my hobbies and my looks. I stopped wanting to do these things, and even with explanations why I didn’t want to do them, you still thought I was being selfish.

I got tired of your best friend expecting me to pay her way. I think when I put that foot down I really stepped in something. Wow. The fallout. But she was your best, and I didn’t expect you to stand up to her. But I did expect you to have the ability to be my friend too. You couldn’t. It was too much to ask. Instead you married that jerk who had the nastiest things to say to me. The one who inspired nights of me crying into my pillow.

It was time to grow up. It was time to move on. I changed the rules. It was too much to expect of you. I asked too much of you. I’m sorry.

It’s nice to see that you’ve a happy marriage, children you love, a satisfying life. It still hurts that you cannot accept the adult me. I guess it’s hard to move on from the teenage years when they were so easy. My expectations asked you to step from your comfortable path. You weren’t ready. You still aren’t. It’s okay. I forgive me for teaching you wrongly. I forgive you for being unable to learn differently.