At some point, it was obvious that I was going to have to
explain the choice of a title for this blog.
Aside from implying that if I were to become homeless, I’d be at a
disadvantage, there is a reason this statement fits.
My grandmother, Arlene, used to say (unfortunately sans
humor), “You weren’t raised: You just grew up….Sprouted! Like a weed.”
Perhaps now is where I should mention that though I am still
twisted up about the relationship with my grandmother, I can at very least see
that “hurt people hurt people” as my very good friend Brad reminds me
often. I will someday expound on what
happened to her that twisted her heart in the way that it was twisted, and
perhaps learn to really forgive her in that process. She was a phenomenal woman in so many, many
respects, and in her defense, it was the most wicked of circumstances (i.e.
losing a child) that ultimately brought her to that point. The truth is, I was the most like her. The mirror I held to her face was more than
she could bear.
I know that what she said was partly true. The irony lies in the fact that any pruning I
experienced as a child, came directly from her...so for her to make this
statement acknowledges that A) she didn’t exactly finish the job, and B) that
she forgets that she could have but instead made a choice to not in her implied
accusation to the parties actually responsible for me…and perhaps, to stay on
track with the metaphor, she could have chosen to also look into the idea
building a garden fence and gate.
So, I was born to a couple that ultimately didn’t have the
structure necessary to raise a healthy child.
Not to say that they were not productive humans….but remember…hurt
people, hurt people. My mother was
always trying to out run, Hitler (i.e. “Mother”) and social expectations. My
father was always trying to prove he could do anything despite certain
handicaps he would have preferred to keep secret. At some point, I will also explain a whole
lot more about them in this process of using the world to purge me of my
issues. Thanks y’all…btw! J
My father was killed when I was 1 ½. My mother had a rough time holding it
together under the circumstances. I
spent a lot of time with my grandmother when I was small and “cute”….like a
dolly with amazing table manners (remind me to post the story about my choosing
as a pre-teen to purposely fail to execute said table manners)…or a trained
monkey in heals. As I got older and my
mother claimed some of her decisions back from “Mother” again, I saw less and
less of my grandmother. No one really
ever took an initiative powerful enough to ensure I had a proper mental box to
exist within past my Grandmother, and I left her box pretty fast when given the
opportunity. I was allowed to come to my
own conclusions…and when they didn’t jive with the plans of our Matriarch, her
punishment was further isolation….and her neglect became my ally.
Once I could think for myself, and teenage angst came into
full fruition, it was a constant power struggle to be near family gatherings. My new ideas were not welcome. Any suggestion at a new way of doing things
evoked the immediate response of “that is not the way things were done by
decent people”…without so much as a consideration of my evidence to the
contrary. She was outraged by the people
that I wound up making friends with, calling them poor white trash…but then
absolutely refused to purchase me the clothing that would have made me
appealing to the pretty little rich girls that the unaccepted “geek” girls called “The Snob Squad”. I was in a weird position of having no proper family
structure, but also being blessed enough to excel in academics despite, and
making friends with some very smart girls that I still know a select few of to
this very day. My grandmother was full
of strange contradictions in her struggle to encompass the social issues of my
1980’s grade-school situation. If she
only knew that all those little girls with the silver spoons wound up just as
messed up, if not more so than I, by the end of the 1990’s.
Every cruel twist of the knife my grandmother would time
with precision became the force I used as rebellion fuel. I clung to anything and everything she
hated…at first I think unconsciously, and maybe with a little help from my
equally rebellious mom, it grew into a full-fledged burden and I became aware
of it. After all, the result of my exile
from her favor was being alone in the jungle.
Mom was not around. I was the
little girl smarter parents either forbade their children from playing with or
just insisted that I come to their house instead of their kid staying the night
at mine, with only one exception being my best friend whose mom partied with
mine…go figure. We reflect today in awe
that we made it out of there…that whole neighborhood/childhood thing. We, quite literally, grew up without parental
supervision of any real consequence…and she had 2 little brothers that we were
watching!
I could go on and on about “what happened then???” Unfortunately, I have already pinpointed what
it was that led to my having no box, so it would just be a bunch of stuff about
my grandmother (which I fully intend to explore later) or about all the dumb
stuff that happened subsequently (again, future posts a plenty), and not so
much really pertaining to the catalyst leading to my realizations that A) there
are many different boxes in which one could be trapped, and B) that because I
knew this, I would be able to choose precisely which one I wanted, and
furthermore, C) that I could choose not to live in a box AT ALL!
I can tell you this: I went through a lot of different boxes
at first! I was entirely too afraid to
stare at myself in the mirror unboxed…at first.
One must condition themselves for the exposure. But, I find that no matter which box you
choose to hide in, made of whatever you want to make it out of (like every
living thing on Earth is carbon based, it is important to note that boxes are
ignorance based), time and wear will always find a way to wear holes in those
silly boxes. And it really is like
living in the dark, because when that light of knowledge breaks through those holes,
“it burns us, precious, it burns us!”
So, I finally went boxless after my separation from my
ex. The one I had been hiding in with
him finally fell apart. After scrambling
to clean up the mess, I went on a long walkabout to think about if I want
another box or not. I have still not
decided on my new box…or if I really want one.
I admit, new boxes are so comfortable.
I just don’t have the luxury of a box that I can fit all of THIS into
anymore. I guess I have just become too
big for my own boxes. J
I could not have shed my box without my friends, especially
one in particular who helped lead with his eyes when mine were swollen
shut. I will never forget what they did
for me and I will always be grateful. That I still have people who will claim
to know me has kept me going for quite some time! It is they who love me that have made this
endeavor of mine possible. Thank you!
