Not about whether or not to have choco-raspberry swirl or mint chocolate chip ice cream. The big stuff. Or even the little stuff that impacts the big stuff.
I used to link of life as a cycle: I do this because I saw/experienced/felt that because I do this. But now I think of it as a pond, with endless ripples moving ever outward, hitting the edges and rippling back in. That's the essence of it. The ripples never go away. They keep moving around, hitting objects in the pond, sometimes even breaking off into their own ripply sequences.
I am among several women I know who are the adult children of alcoholics who's parents had stopped drinking and who's relationship with said parent is quite good (and had been even during the drinking days). And yet, we still carry many of the (practically genetically imprinted) characteristics of being an adult child of an alcoholic. I wonder sometimes if there is some sort of post traumatic stress disorder for such things. Because honestly, while we're pretty together women, we all a bit fucked up.
We don't know how to ask for help.
We've become experts at maintaining an even facade and not acting as if anything is bothering us.
We work very very hard to make sure everyone in our lives is happy and pleased with us, even to the point of unnecessary self-sacrifice.
We are the calm voice in the midst of someone else's chaos, but become almost catatonically inert in the midst of our own.
We are absolutely convinced that one wrong step on our part will guarantee the people we love will abandon us.
I repeat:
We don't know how to ask for help.
We don't know how to ask for help.
We don't know how to ask for help.
And we know no one is going to rescue us.
The alcoholic in my growing-up life was himself an adult child of an alcoholic. Knowing this has helped keep me from blaming him for the way I was imprinted. Besides, at this point in my life, the only person responsible for my actions is me. It is hard sometimes, though. To look back and see the ripples of my life as they collide with those of my father's. Sometimes I hurt for him and how alone he has always felt. I know he will always worry about losing all of our love. I know there is nothing I can do or say to make that fear go away, because I feel it too regardless of what anyone else says. Sometimes I hurt for myself, for the insecure little-me girl who reminds me I'm not completely over it yet; that I may never be completely over it all; that because of this life I've led, I've made decisions I can never unmake which will always impact my life.
Whenever I am in crisis mode, wherein I am reaping the side effects of choices I've made, I tend to focus more on the whys of it instead of the okay now what do I do? problem solving that should get done. This frustrates me. The whys are fascinating, but they only serve to help me figure out my past, not move forward.
Sometimes I just wish I could figure out how to ask the right people for help and trust they will do that.
Sigh. What a depressing post. I think I need a Vincent picture to cheer us all up:
1 comment:
Vincent! OMG! Yay! Also, I would take the mint chocolate chip.
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