As I sit here, the tips of my fingers at the ready and resting on the keys to my keyboard, I am struggling as to what to write about and find myself drawing a big, fat blank.
That’s usually never an issue. Ordinarily, my imagination can conjure up all kinds of stories and my reality provides me with an endless source of material. Far too much at times, to be sure.
However, lately, it’s been a struggle. And I’m not simply referring to writing; I’m talking about existing on this planet. Because I don’t know about you, but I find it hard to be here sometimes.
It’s what I refer to as ‘a major design flaw’. Clearly, when I was slow cooking in my mother’s uterus, something went awry. Or perhaps it could have even happened prior to that, when her egg was ambushed by my bio-father’s sperm?
Yes, I know all the available literature on sex education doesn’t generally use the term ‘ambush’ to describe the moment of conception, but in my case, I feel it’s suitable. And it’s actually the term my mom used to use when she’d describe how she came to be married to my bio-father.
Let’s just say, it was the early 1950s and despite her resistance to becoming a dutiful wife, the powers-that-be thought otherwise.
Nonetheless, as my 8 siblings before me, I spent approximately 9 months in my mother’s uterus before making my debut. And once I did, even though I was brand new to this planet, I think the fight or flight instinct kicked in immediately because I’ve had one Hell of a time ever since.
I’ve never been an ‘on the sunny side of the street’ person, I prefer the side where the shadows tend to linger. It’s where I feel much more at home.
Still, it’s not a great place to hang out because if I stay too long, the shadows begin to devour me; so, I try to cross the street on occasion and enjoy the warmth of the sun’s rays. When I’m distracted with plenty of things to do, I manage ok and am able to keep the shadows at bay. But when I have too much time on my hands, the shadows have a tendency to take over and place a chokehold on me.
And as I mentioned earlier, this has been going on for a VERY LONG TIME.
It’s very concerning to not only me, but to my entire family. I’ve been trying to fix this design flaw for decades and each time I think I’ve finally made a breakthrough, I find myself essentially back at square one. It’s incredibly discouraging and exhausting and I often wonder if I’ll ever find the formula to fix it, once and for all.
Therapists don’t have the formula. I’ve asked. I’ve been going to various shrinks for the past 40 years and no one has been able to solve the puzzle. They might get close, but I have a tendency to self-sabotage, so nothing ever fully lands or firmly takes hold.
And as much as I like people, I’ve not had a good track record with relationships. Most of the people I have met throughout my life have a tendency to disappoint because few actually follow through with their stated intentions or they have an agenda.
The other thing I have found to be true is that 99% of the time, unless I initiate communication, most people (aside from my husband and children) can’t be bothered to make a call, send a text, or compose an email. It’s just the way the world is. Out of sight, out of mind.
So, there’s that. And then there’s the other stuff.
The other stuff relates to my bio-father and my brother Turtle, as well as other blood relations in my immediate family. Would you like me to elaborate?
Well, in recent months I’ve been thinking a great deal about my brother Turtle as well as my bio-father. And what they definitely have in common is the whole out-of-the-blue, becoming a religious fanatic thing.
It’s made me think. Correction. It’s made me WORRY. A LOT.
Why worry? To the best of my recollection, when I was MUCH younger, my bio-father (outside of church) never referenced any scripture, unless it was some B.S. about a woman obeying her husband or children respecting their elders or some such thing. He definitely wouldn’t have been considered anything even remotely close to a bible-thumper.
But when I was older, and he was MUCH older, that was no longer the case. I don’t know when it exactly happened, but at some point he went off the deep end. He got his hands on a bible and thumped it from sunrise to sunset. I can’t say for certain when this whole transformation took place because I literally didn’t see him from age 7 ½ until age 35.
It’s a very long story and full of all kinds of twists and turns, but I’m grateful I didn’t see him from age 7 ½ until well into my adulthood, because the man was a P.O.S. human being and a lousy excuse for a father.
Would you like me to prove my point? Here’s an excerpt from a letter (my mother saved) that my paternal grandfather wrote and sent in March of 1963 to my bio-father (his son): “We enjoyed our visit with you and XXXX and the children. It was marred only by something that we cannot really understand, that is, the way you yelled at the children “I’ll kill you” over and over again.” Amongst other things, my grandfather goes on to say that it can leave a bad impression on the receptive minds of children. Ya think?! Imagine the things my bio-father said and did when he didn’t have an audience! I’ll put it this way. It wasn’t good.
Anyway, sorry about that. It’s hard for me to not feel some bitterness but I will try and remain neutral and just stick to the facts as best I can.
Getting back to the point, I worry about my sanity because much like my bio-father, my brother Turtle has begun exhibiting some of the same traits. I should clarify. Turtle has developed a religious dogma that he feels inclined to share with anyone and everyone, much like my bio-father did; however, he does NOT go around saying horrible things to children. The only logical explanation I have for this unfortunate turn of events is that he’s lived alone on a non-live-aboard sailboat for upwards of 34 years and as a result of the continuous isolation, his brain broke.
I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to wind up the same way. The thought of it often has me up at night, consumed with worry.
Living with depression and anxiety (part of my design flaw) is enough to keep me relatively humble, but now I have this grave concern that without warning, a ticking time bomb is going to go off in my own brain and I will eventually wind up standing in a median in the middle of an intersection, and shouting scripture at passersby. Or, as my bio-father used to do, stand outside of gay clubs and harass unsuspecting clientele who just want to go home and rest after dancing the night away to artists like Lady Gaga and Donna Summer.
Dear Lord, say it isn’t so!
To that, all I can say is thank goodness for humor because despite how much I struggle, it’s been my lifeline. Many people don’t get it and that’s ok. My recently retired doctor referred to it as ‘gallows humor’ because it’s dark. Really dark.
Dark humor comes in really handy when you work for a coroner, which I did for 4+ years. I really enjoyed my job until the coroner whom I worked for decided to move across the country and a humorless ‘gentleman’ took his place. It was a gamechanger and I lasted a mere 4 months before submitting my resignation.
Where does dark humor not necessarily work so well? With the folks whose ‘club’ I’ll soon be joining, the senior community (aka ‘the white hairs’). I learned this the hard way when I took a job as a receptionist/administrative assistant at a Senior Activity Center a few years back. Oof, I got more than a few people riled up! Fortunately, when I was on the verge of quitting, Covid happened and I was laid off instead.
And what a blessing in disguise! I’d never utilized unemployment services before and I had to ask myself why (once I did) because that was a sweet paycheck while it lasted!
All that said, I feel compelled at this time to make mention of my former doctor (before I get distracted and go off on another tangent.)
I consider myself fortunate that I had a physician for at least two decades who ‘got me’. Whenever he’d give me crap about mammograms and pap smears and colonoscopies, I’d tell him that ‘it’s not happening’. When he’d ask why, I’d remind him that I’m already living on borrowed time (due to my transplant) and at some point, we’ve all got to meet our maker.
He never pushed me too hard because he knew my struggles and the idea of trying to find a new doctor who ‘gets me’ has been really daunting. Because over the course of my life, I’ve experienced my fair share of physicians and very few understood or appreciated my sense of humor. I actually did have a new patient consult with a young-ish doc last week but the jury’s still out as to whether I’m going to return.
Anyway, for what it’s worth, that’s what’s been going on in my world (the good, the bad and the ugly).
And that, my friends, is all I’ve got.
Blessings to you and yours…
