I've been admonished by a certain member of my family, a sister, for writings she construes as critical of my upbringing. How do I explain that my thoughts, feelings, and perceptions are mine. Right or wrong, true or false, they are uniquely, my own experiences.
I freely admit that I'm an alcoholic, in recovery, of course, but an alcoholic, nonetheless. Thus, I have the innate trait of reacting not-quite-normal to my circumstances. I'm the girl scout who bit another girl scout at a troop outing. I don't remember why, but does it really matter? I couldn't wait to grow up to be able to drink alcohol like my mother, stepfather, and their friends. I had no concept of what I wanted to be but I was certain I wanted to drink, eat cake batter, and dance.
I was the teenager who awoke to a sailor on top of her, following an all night party, with her new stepsisters, then feigned bravado at the discovery in flagrante´delicto. I figured I deserved my predicament, offended the party host, who coveted the company of the young recruit, and the ire of my party saavy siblings. Join the party, I hated me.
As a young, single woman, I caught my mother, laughingly sharing the ugly details of my deflowering, which almost killed me, with her best friend over afternoon drinks. I learned not to trust. Though I continued to misplace my trust in people; family, friends, employers, employees; but I hid much of my true, authentic self.
I crashed headlong into adultery as a confused, young wife and mother, when my husband's attentions waned toward my best friend. My psyche rebelled at my rash reaction and the knowledge of my transgression weighed heavy. As a result, I launched the equivalent of a rocket-propelled grenade into my nine-year marriage. I told. As the family of my choice ripped apart, I made cascading poor choices insuring the losses of my husband and confidante, my beloved mother and sister-in-law, my grandfather and step-grandmother, and primary custody of the love of my life, my daughter.
Secrets revealed, though I may have been critical, I hardly believe I'm holier-than-thou. I have made more than my share of life mistakes. I'd like to think that though I made errors, they do not define my life. My hope is that I am, ultimately, defined by how I've risen above, learned hard lessons, persevered, and carried-on.
I freely admit that I'm an alcoholic, in recovery, of course, but an alcoholic, nonetheless. Thus, I have the innate trait of reacting not-quite-normal to my circumstances. I'm the girl scout who bit another girl scout at a troop outing. I don't remember why, but does it really matter? I couldn't wait to grow up to be able to drink alcohol like my mother, stepfather, and their friends. I had no concept of what I wanted to be but I was certain I wanted to drink, eat cake batter, and dance.
I was the teenager who awoke to a sailor on top of her, following an all night party, with her new stepsisters, then feigned bravado at the discovery in flagrante´delicto. I figured I deserved my predicament, offended the party host, who coveted the company of the young recruit, and the ire of my party saavy siblings. Join the party, I hated me.
As a young, single woman, I caught my mother, laughingly sharing the ugly details of my deflowering, which almost killed me, with her best friend over afternoon drinks. I learned not to trust. Though I continued to misplace my trust in people; family, friends, employers, employees; but I hid much of my true, authentic self.
I crashed headlong into adultery as a confused, young wife and mother, when my husband's attentions waned toward my best friend. My psyche rebelled at my rash reaction and the knowledge of my transgression weighed heavy. As a result, I launched the equivalent of a rocket-propelled grenade into my nine-year marriage. I told. As the family of my choice ripped apart, I made cascading poor choices insuring the losses of my husband and confidante, my beloved mother and sister-in-law, my grandfather and step-grandmother, and primary custody of the love of my life, my daughter.
Secrets revealed, though I may have been critical, I hardly believe I'm holier-than-thou. I have made more than my share of life mistakes. I'd like to think that though I made errors, they do not define my life. My hope is that I am, ultimately, defined by how I've risen above, learned hard lessons, persevered, and carried-on.
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