Worth Writing

In Good Standing

In the comment section at the bottom of each entry people have been very supportive and kind.  I have also received numerous private emails of the same sort in which I have repeatedly been called “courageous” and “strong”.  I’ve been uncomfortable with the complimentary statements about my character but didn’t know what to say.  However, a recent comment, similar to others, regarding what appears to be my generous capacity to love has finally got me on the mats.  It’s time to admit that I can’t for the life of me see why others see me as courageous or strong.  I totally buckled under the stress and pain and became a pill-popping alcoholic avoider of Life from childhood to my mid-twenties.  I managed to quit killing myself slowly at that point, slough off the agonizing self-pity and rage, and put together some semblance of a life.  That was extremely frightening and difficult, but I just don’t see where the courage part comes in.  I simply reached a point where I was either going to kill myself and let my entire existence be pathetic from beginning to end, or I was going to grab hold of some small measure of peace and self-respect before it was all over.

Letting go of the anger was a compromise.  As my sister and parents demanded continually that I behave with gratitude toward my parents ‘for all they’d done for me’ and realize how lucky I was to have them, I finally reached my saturation point of Gall and reasoned I’d meet them half way: they’d never get respect and gratitude they didn’t earn or deserve, but I’d stop seething with resentment and just call the past a ‘write off’, accept that my early years were ‘totalled’ emotionally.  I would not fill the humble dutiful daughter role, but I would halt the dance of anger.  Unfortunately for them it was only then I realized my anger was the only thing holding me to them. 

As for the comment about my capacity to love, from the time I was very young I was bombarded with accusations that I wasn’t capable of considering or caring for anyone but myself.  To this day my sister claims vociferously that I am sick (based on my rejection of my parents), that I have a serious narcissistic disorder and must seek treatment for my sake and for the sake of all others.  (Wow. Just have to say ‘wow’) She obviously grew up listening to what my mother and father were yelling at me but never questioned their reasoning.  My sister isn’t welcome in my life anymore because about three years ago, thereabouts, I simply got fed up with her raving in my face and demanding that I admit to her diagnosis of my social and emotional inadequacies.  The ridiculousness of it alone with the presence of loving relationships in my life was frustrating the bejeezus out of me even if she wasn’t breaking the skin.

Admittedly, however, I struggle with fears that I am as selfish and greedy as I’d been defined by my family.  Yes, I have been giving and unselfish, but have I been that way often enough?  I have fears that the moments of greed and selfishness collected are greater than time spent behaving otherwise.  It pains me to think my family’s lack of respect or feeling for me has any basis.  These fears are – I realize – all caught up with the argument over my parents’ supposed sacrifices and generosity toward me in later years.  I am always concerned that my gestures of love and support are as trivial as their gestures were in the grand scheme of things. 

It is important to me to be as honest as I can about who and how I am and it disturbs me greatly to be seen as greater than or less than that.  At the end of the day all I really have to call my own is my character, the real foundation for me life regardless of where I live, who loves me, or what I own.  It matters most that I behave like the kind of person I can respect.  Yes, it is sad that I am constantly questioning whether I have achieved and maintain that goal.  Taking stock of one’s life is a matter of awareness; ceaselessly going over the same stock is a lack of faith.