The point of this blog is about challenging yourself, and as our successful two-week pizza deprivation comes to a close, I’ve considered other things in my life which I’d like to improve upon. Sure, I can give up delicious Italian fare for 14 days, but what about me as a person? Myself? What are the limitations I face and how can they be broken?
I have no delusions about perfection. Some people believe we are born without flaws and then damaged by nature, nurture, or both. I believe we are born innocent (there’s a distinct difference) with infinite potential to be tainted from a combination of our genetic inheritance and the environment in which we grow. No one is or ever will be perfect. And frankly, who would want to live in a world of Stepford accountability? The best we can do as a human being is make the best of what we’re given and what we’ve got.
It’s taken me a long time to deal with some of the things which shadow my usually upbeat and smile-laden personality. No one wants to step back and say, “Shit, that fucked me up.” Admissions of failure impress upon us a sense of personal doom, and that by owning up to those failures makes us weak. Weakness isn’t admired- no one roots for the lame duck, books or history won’t favor someone who never makes strides of greatness. From a very early age we’re told to be the best, to do our best, to, in the prolific words of Survivor: outwit, outplay, outlast.
But isn’t the greatest mark of achievement realizing what needs to be changed about yourself and actually attaining those goals? What could possibly be harder that acknowledging your own faults, especially under the public social microscope. I don’t need an immunity idol, either. I want to be the metaphorical player running down the beach in her birthday suit who’s still able to win over allies and score a jungle rat for dinner.
Growing up, I didn’t realize that my father was an alcoholic, only that he drank a lot and this made him argumentative, combative, and a chronic liar. He manipulated every situation to his advantage. He put vodka in his morning juice and hid liquor in the garage. I remember walking into our backyard to play and finding it littered with beer bottles he’d never picked up. My father spent the better part of my childhood yelling at my mother, yelling at my sister and me, withholding money, and never following through on the many promises he made us. I realize that as children we perceive things differently, that our memories can be distorted by time and experience, but what I recall of my father did happen and I can see the confirmation shining back in my family’s eyes.
I don't have the slightest problem with drinking; I do it myself, it's a fun social activity and usually provides a dearth of good stories. But the way in which someone handles themselves under the influence, the way in which they do or do not allow it to shape their lives...this is what I always consider.
When he was sober, we’d have adventures. He turned an ordinary walk in the woods into a fairytale, a blanket fort into a mountain hideaway. His imagination knew few, if any bounds when it came to the make believe, though it was always reality he couldn’t grasp. As we grew up, he never listened to his children, never considered their opinion or feelings. We were supposed to love and respect him because he was our father. This was not a rule I agreed with. So we fought. I demanded to be heard and was rewarded with being told I was crazy, that I was as bad as my mother, and that he hated me.
I could go into length and detail about the episodes in which he hurt me, so deeply that I start shaking when I think of running into him on a street. That won’t serve any other purpose than to beat a dead horse. He took away the most precious thing a person has and that is trust in other people. I grew up and grew on, eventually taking the initiative to make my life what I wanted it to be. It wasn’t easy though, and every step of the way he lingered in my subconscious like a whisper in the dark: “You won’t be happy. You don’t deserve it.” I frantically worried over money, that I wouldn't have enough for any matter of disasters, small or large, down the line. What my mom had suffered from his wrongdoings was not a pattern I sought to repeat; I always wanted to make sure I had enough, just in case the world fell out beneath my feet again.
So no, that’s not the happiest thing I've ever written by a long shot as I read it back over. And that’s not to say I don’t have handfuls of happy things to make me smile from my younger years, but those bad times, originating with one of the two people you rely on the most as a kid, changes you. I reflect on those memories of my father from more of a distant vantage, as if observing the events inside a snow globe. They happened to me and my family, but they are part of a different life. I'm not a child anymore and I have so many incredible gifts in life to be grateful for and enjoy. He scarred me in some regards, but pushing past those hurts has made me stronger. I value people and things much more than I ordinarily would. I haven’t seen to or spoken to my father in over five years. I don’t even know where he is. It’s better that way.
For a long time I wondered if I’d find someone, if I’d ever be able to let someone in past all the walls I’d built up so defensively. I knew it would be difficult, if not entirely impossible, especially when you've lived your life feeling like an old soul inside a modern flesh. But everything else was going well- new city, new job, abounding confidence and hope for the future. Surely, amidst all of this, he would find me.
And then I found him, on match.com. A 6’4” English teacher named John. We talked and freely and widely for hours on our first date over margaritas and Mexican food. And at the risk of being cliche, it felt like a puzzle-piece clicking into place. How could it just feel that right, that natural, like somehting we both wanted in such a short span of time? He makes me think, keeps me on my toes, laughs at all my bad jokes, nerds out with me, holds me tight, loves my dog and loves me, loves me deeper than I ever thought anyone would. It’s hard for me to express just how John changed my life and in what wondrous ways he still does every day. With John I can be myself, absolutely and completely. And so even when I have a girl fit and cry because I can’t find a dress to wear for dinner or get bummed because my cookies burned or become a stressball over who’s taking care of Maddie when we go away he still loves me. And this was a revelation to me; love like that, without condition. He loves me for me and though we sometimes disagree or endure a miscommunication, we make quick amends. When you truly love someone, you love them as a whole, down to the last and smallest flaw. We had found the person we always wanted to be with, who completed the other. Most importantly, they are your greatest support when you look toward bettering yourself. They cheer you on, provide words of encouragement or calm rationale, and love you all the more because it’s something you’ve decided to pursue for and by yourself.
Though a little help never hurts. I have to understand that asking for help is not a sign of weakness, but of reality and survival. I don’t have to be strong for everyone, myself included, all the time. I have to accept that people want to help me because they love me, and that I am not going to be used or undermined because of it. John gave me back my trust. He is the love of my life, my soul mate, and my dearest friend. Happiness is not always a fleeting thought. It can live inside you and grow, unbridled and free, until the smile which spreads across your face is a reminder that things can and do change for the better.
