I always said I'd never blog because I never had anything to say that anyone would ever want to read or learn from. Who cares what I think? Hopefully no one does. This is not me in the picture, it's my younger sister (front and center with the awful cat-eye glasses she used to flush down the toilet with regularity), who is now a very distinguished academic, so I can't tell you her name because she'd KILL me. But it's a good picture, isn't it?
One thing I do regret is that I have such a lousy memory of my past. If only I'd actually written an obsessive chronicle of the events of my childhood surely I'd have enough material for several volumes of fiction. Who'd believe it now? I'm not even sure I would. And what would it serve? Maybe a "reality" check of my memories, nightmares, delusions? A road map that might explain what I am now by what I'd experienced? Who knows. When my mother was about to kill herself (she kindly hinted to us in advance about her intention but not the exact timing or method she'd chosen.........officer) I finally summoned up the nerve to challenge her with one of the off-hand things she'd said to me when I was in grade-school that I felt had scarred me for life, and she denied she'd ever said anything of the sort. Naturally, her memory - at least by that point - was worse than mine, but surely I hadn't *imagined* her comment.
What is it that my darling son will remember of an off-hand remark I may have made while he was growing up that might have had such force for him and that I, pathetically, no longer recall? He's a sensitive soul. I shudder to think about it. But does even that realization, fear actually, or its ephemerality for my mother, make me feel the sting any less or make that remark any less the center of my emotional DNA? Words can have such power.
Later, of course, I made the enormous mistake of mentioning her original accusation to someone, a friend of sorts, who flung it back in my face again later as a judgment, during an argument, and re-opened that old wound. Is there anything more painful that that?
Sure there is! But what a good way to learn that it's best to trust no one with those deep, dark secrets. Best to keep that sadness and sorrow inside until they become the rage that sustains you through your golden years and impels you to tell the kids outside to STAY THE HELL OFF YOUR LAWN. You've all been warned. Stay the f**k off my lawn. :)
One thing I do regret is that I have such a lousy memory of my past. If only I'd actually written an obsessive chronicle of the events of my childhood surely I'd have enough material for several volumes of fiction. Who'd believe it now? I'm not even sure I would. And what would it serve? Maybe a "reality" check of my memories, nightmares, delusions? A road map that might explain what I am now by what I'd experienced? Who knows. When my mother was about to kill herself (she kindly hinted to us in advance about her intention but not the exact timing or method she'd chosen.........officer) I finally summoned up the nerve to challenge her with one of the off-hand things she'd said to me when I was in grade-school that I felt had scarred me for life, and she denied she'd ever said anything of the sort. Naturally, her memory - at least by that point - was worse than mine, but surely I hadn't *imagined* her comment.
What is it that my darling son will remember of an off-hand remark I may have made while he was growing up that might have had such force for him and that I, pathetically, no longer recall? He's a sensitive soul. I shudder to think about it. But does even that realization, fear actually, or its ephemerality for my mother, make me feel the sting any less or make that remark any less the center of my emotional DNA? Words can have such power.
Later, of course, I made the enormous mistake of mentioning her original accusation to someone, a friend of sorts, who flung it back in my face again later as a judgment, during an argument, and re-opened that old wound. Is there anything more painful that that?
Sure there is! But what a good way to learn that it's best to trust no one with those deep, dark secrets. Best to keep that sadness and sorrow inside until they become the rage that sustains you through your golden years and impels you to tell the kids outside to STAY THE HELL OFF YOUR LAWN. You've all been warned. Stay the f**k off my lawn. :)
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