I told my husband I was thinking about starting a blog about my family. And he's met them, so he thought he had an idea of what he'd be reading here. I mean, he's been here, next to me, walking this life for quite a while now, and even so I have already shocked him.
He's furious with my grandfather for the whole nearly-killing-my-brother-with-a-large-pillow thing. Because in his head, the little boy under the pillow is one of our children. His mind's eye will not put the correct face on the body.
It's things like this that poke the unnecessary guilt in my spirit.
I'm sorry my family was so fucked up.
I'm sorry that there are things in our life that I cannot enjoy because someone stole something from me. I didn't want to be there, I didn't, I didn't, I didn't.
I'm sorry that I flip out when you're not home when you say you're going to be home. It's just that I sort of expect you to not come back. People in my life leave and don't come back, and it terrifies me. Even after this long, even though I know that you are coming back, that you would rather be here than anywhere.
Nature vs. nurture? I learned this brand of crazy. I was nurtured in crazy. My role models were the angry, post-traumatic stress type and the angry passive-aggressive type.
I get that I'm not responsible for these things, but it doesn't make them go away. I understand that I can only control my own behavior, but that doesn't make my gut stop tying itself in knots.
I am learning. But there's a whole lot of ugly to get through, and a pile of baggage to sort. Thanks for being patient.