Family… I think of it as history. Ha! It is my life before I knew it was my life. It is my life now, but I go through days, weeks, months denying it.
I’m afraid to be like my mother. I’ve guarded myself for years. Mother was volatile, she was jealous, she was needy, and she was so afraid that her needs would not be met that she became a master of manipulation. As young women, my sisters and I alternately fought with her, scorned her, avoided her and aspired never to be her. It has taken me forever in dog years to recognize and appreciate her good qualities.
Today I am been sorting family history files. The letters tell the story.
Mother’s feelings poured out from her fountain pen in bright green ink. She emoted. Her pain tears at the pages and shreds me as I read. I used to think she made it up. Looking at it now, she didn’t. I feel her life in her books and letters.
Dad is a different story. He was the intellectual, the wise man, the loving reasonable father. He wrote for posterity. He had a message with a capital “M”. Great stuff; but always controlled, always cohesive and always making sense.
I want to write more like my Mom. I want to see myself in my words. I’d rather show how I feel than how I think.
There. I’ve said it. I want to be more like my Mom. Yikes!