Dysfunction in my family of origin went unnoticed by me until I started college. Silence in my childhood home was only interrupted by the most mundane of conversations – “what’s for dinner?”, “Unload the dishwasher before I get home.”, “Get your shoes before you miss the bus.” My mother had a new arts and crafts hobby each week. My daddy found as much as possible to do outside to get out of the house. I read books…a lot. Country music played on the radio in the background. The only thing I ever remember us doing as a family was square dancing. (True story. It was a small town. It’s part of my past just like braces.) Even that involved couples, so really we only rode in the same car to the event.
We didn’t take family vacations. We didn’t attend sporting events together. We didn’t attend church together. We didn’t play board games around the dinner table. We existed as individual islands within four walls. I had no idea that families actually did things together until I was invited to the homes of different friends, and I witnessed family discussions, planning, devotions, etc.
When my ex-husband and I met, we discovered that we both had similar stories of broken homes, disappointment, and addiction in our families. Both newly sober, we were determined to break the cycle of brokenness. And we did, for a time. We created a home and a family for his two children, and planned a future for us, them, and possibly more children. We worked hard on ourselves individually so that we could be as emotionally healthy as possible in a family of our own. We made mistakes. We made amends.
More than ever before, the dysfunction in each of our families of origin was prominent. As our recovery taught us, we learned to accept, take what we needed from it, and leave the rest. Some of the time, old ways overrode new ways. We made an effort, and we didn’t quit when we stumbled.
Somewhere along the way, we lost the “why” of us among the living of us as a family. Our time on the path together was ending. We were sad, disappointed, and confused about the situation in which we found ourselves. As most wounded people do, we took a few emotional shots at each other. We tried to blame, and finally accepted. We realized that it was time for us to move on individually. After watching my own parents go through a horrible, ten year battle of a divorce, I was determined that was not going to be our fate. He didn’t want to recreate the divorce of his parents either. So we found a place in the middle, and we went about the business of unbecoming a family.
We were a couple for 15 years, married for 14 of them. Each of us struggled to learn who we were without a spouse again. He now had three children, all of whom I considered mine. I had loved the older two for most of their lives, and I birthed the youngest. They were never my “stepchildren”; they were simply my oldest two. Trying to imagine myself as a single mother of one instead of a family was the hardest part. He struggled financially as the economy was in a recession. So did I.
His mother was still my mother. My dad was still his. Family of origin related to a divorce is awkward. Holidays are hard. We celebrated separately. Sometimes I celebrated with friends.
Life goes on. He met someone new, and wanted to introduce her to our daughter. I wanted to tell him I was dating women. Outside forces tried to create chaos between us, but we eventually remembered who we really are. We yelled a few times over the phone at each other. We calmly discussed the children at other times. He asked about my dad. I took his mother to dinner. He created a beautiful life with his girlfriend. I dug deeper and deeper trying to learn who I was. The children grew.
In 2013, he was involved in a serious accident that almost took his life. He was crushed from the waist down and in critical care at the hospital near my home. As I told my daughter, I could see fear take over her eyes. When I asked if she wanted me to go with her to the hospital, all she could do was nod.
And then I knew. I knew what family was. I knew I needed to be there for her, for him, for our older two children, for his mother, his father, his stepmother, his girlfriend, and his siblings. I knew, in that one split second, that family isn’t made with marriage certificates, divorce decrees, custody agreements, or even DNA. Family is made when you care more about someone’s well being, and the well being of those they love, than you do about yourself.
Love is so many different things at any given time on the planet. Romantic, young, exciting, new love is the easiest, most addictive love. Married, bill-paying, mowing the lawn love is a little harder. Strange, awkward, after the divorce, caring, not romantic love is virtually nonexistent. And I knew. I knew this family is the legacy we are leaving our children. This non-traditional, outside the box, crazy, loyal, suit up and show up family is the gift that we gave to our children.
His accident brought all of us back together for what is real. My older daughter spent weeks sleeping at my house so she could spend days with her dad in the hospital nearby. His mother and I went to dinner more often. Since then, each of our lives has taken twists and turns-sometimes hairpin curves unforeseen.
He has taken steps to fulfill his lifelong dream of living on a mountain. His girlfriend has recently beaten stage IV cancer. His parents have both passed on, along with one beloved nephew. I have earned a second degree, loved and learned, watched some of my own family of origin walk away, and married again. He and his girlfriend, together with my wife and I, have attended college graduations, weddings, and other family events with our children. All four of us have survived our youngest daughter’s teen angst and torture together. We have cried over the phone together, and we have celebrated joy together. He sends a text every year on my recovery anniversary, and on Mother’s Day. I try hard to be diligent about doing the same. I am grateful for the friendship and care that he and I have forged through the years. We most assuredly did it better than our parents.
Recently, my wife was diagnosed with cancer. I reeled, swinging hard from one emotion to another. The phone rang. I answered from the sofa sitting next to my wife. He said, “I saw she was at the cancer walk today. What’s going on?” I spoke haltingly, with false courage, about her diagnosis. And he knew. He knew about family, about caring for someone else’s well-being. He knew about the legacy.
My entire life is littered with the remains of the mistakes I’ve made. I’ve chosen things, people, and places for all the wrong reasons at various times in my life. But the time that it really mattered, the time that it meant family, I picked a damn good baby daddy.
Related
Hope
A beautiful spring day when the sky is an endless, cerulean blue with big fluffy, marshmallow clouds.
A hug so warm it seeps into your spirit, sometimes a fire that burns your fingers.
The sunlight glinting on the lake throwing diamonds in your eyes with every ripple.
A murmuration of starlings flying in a glorious pattern, weaving heaven and earth into one being.
Coffee every morning, just the way you like it – two cups exactly.
The color blue – soft, kind, and soothing as a baby’s blanket.
A day in the woods, walking slowly among the trees, marveling at every vein and tributary in a leaf.
Iced tea, unsweetened, thirst quenching in the fiery summer sun.
Belonging, right where you are, just as you are.
A swim in crystal clear water on a night so warm it feels like a cozy hug with every stroke.
The ocean in darkness with a night sky bedazzled with stars shining like beacons calling you home.
The full moon over the water illuminating trails that lead to her glow.
The sound of waves gently rolling onto shore, rocking you like an angel’s lullaby.
Fall, when the sun is a giant orange ball on the horizon sinking into the lake.
A soft place to crash, and a cannon launching you back into the world.
Belly laughter from a baby, the kind that makes you laugh so hard you cry.
The brightest light, the kind you imagine Heaven uses as a welcome mat.
Laundry, and mail, and mowing the lawn – the thing that makes a life, daily.
The thing that makes it a life uncommon.
Winter, sharing a blanket together, watching the flames in the fireplace reflect in blue eyes.
A cloak when the world has peeled you raw, and you have no skin.
Quirky – cucumber green tea bath soap, toothpaste that stands up, and wiping dog paws every time.
A campfire, drawing everyone into the circle, encouraging connection, braiding hearts together.
A single tear, leaving a trail down a face, throat constricted, unable to speak.
Drinking chocolate, savory, dark, rich, something to be sipped.
Soul food.
To The Stranger I Once Called Mama
The only one who had a plan and a purpose for me was God.
My destiny was to never be enough.
I entered your journey as a mistake – my life a burden to yours.
You wanted me to become your real-life doll. Dolls were never my playthings. My playground was the ball field, the barn, a gravel road that I could explore.
You wanted to bend me to your will. My brain was too inquisitive, asking “why” too often for your comfort.
The lace dresses and ribbon bows in which you draped me were chains. I couldn’t breathe sitting still, being quiet, looking pretty. Outside, the sun and dirt begged me to come play. Barefoot in jeans, scraped knees, dirty fingernails – my lungs gasped for air.
I’m sorry I couldn’t accept the God you pushed toward me. It wasn’t big enough to hold me. I needed a whole Universe to teach me where to find a higher power.
Get out of your hair. Obey without question. You wanted me to need you. I did, for all the things you could never give.
Trust you. Believe you. Fit into your life only where it’s convenient. You wanted me to validate you, but I was just a child.
You wanted me to love you unconditionally, but you are thorny and drew blood when I came near. You were a perfect study in “Go away, Come here.”
You wanted me to respect you, but you could never teach me how.
When I became an adult, I wanted to blame your youth, immaturity. Now, you know better. You still choose pride and ego over a relationship with me.
Now, you want to be proud of me, but you are unable to see the heart in me that is good.
You are aging and your mortality grows nearer. I imagine you want to see yourself in me – an instinctive pull to reflect on the genetic contribution you made to the world.
You are sold on the picture in your mind of who you think I should be. Your limited vision is a chrysalis, but I am already a butterfly as multi-faceted as sunlight on a dew drop.
The only one with a plan and purpose for me was God.
Until
I gave birth to my own daughter.
I didn’t know how to be a mother. Thanks to you, I knew how not to.
Do the opposite of what you did.
Love her without reason.
Celebrate her just because she exists.
Tell her that being present in her life is pure joy.
That’s how I learned to be a mother.
I know the thrill of participating in her world.
She knows without doubt that she’s every dream I’ve ever had.
I know the absolute bliss in watching her walk into her destiny.
The life from you to me to her is as different as night and day.
Seeing the light in my daughter’s eyes makes me understand the depth of the void in your life. Seeing her fulfill her own purpose and plan is a promise from the Universe.
Do you grieve? Do you even understand your casualty?
I’m sorry that the box you live inside locks out the light of your daughter. I’m sorry you can’t see the magic and divinity that I am.
It’s not a loss to me anymore. It’s a loss to you, knowing you chose to let me go.
The only one whose plan and purpose mattered for me was God.
My destiny was to be so much more than enough.
Happy Holidays From The Cheap Seats
Holiday season is here. Break out the turkeys, casseroles, Christmas carols, gifts, and family. We all picture the cozy family gatherings viewed through a frozen, candlelit window pane amidst snow softly falling. We don’t ever imagine the actual train wreck it is for many of us. The reality is, for those among us in recovery, those among us who are LGBT, those of us who are desperately trying to establish our own truths about our identities as adults, that family ends up being a place where we don’t belong. Aunt Edith is going to whisper (loudly) all the latest gossip about cousin Ned’s latest stint in rehab so that everyone within a 50 mile radius can hear it. Another relative is going to ask gay cousin Jim what happened to his last “friend”. Granny is going to get pissed because the rolls are burning and no one can be bothered with helping. And God knows that someone is going to bring up politics.
My approach was always to laugh it all off. It’s an interesting approach considering that *I’m* the gay, recovering alcoholic in my own family. I’ve turned Aunt Edith’s comments into humor. I’ve distracted the conversation away from the pain of a recent breakup with a joke. I’ve responded to Granny’s ire with a suggestion of happy pills for everyone. What I’ve learned is that my humor keeps me popular in my family. I’m able to stay safe within the role assigned to me early on. I’ve also learned that my soul dies a little more when I cover up my authenticity with humor.
I’m sure that I’ve never fit into the role in which I was assigned within my family. I tried hard for a very long time. I did the next indicated, expected thing throughout my youth and young adulthood. I made good grades in school, did my assigned chores at home, went to college, pledged a sorority, dated guys, graduated, got a job, bought a house, got married, started a family.
I discovered that around age 26, I didn’t drink like others around me. I drank to fill a hole inside me, and alcohol worked. Until it didn’t. When I got sober, I remember a family member saying to me “Don’t mention that you’re sober around these people we’re going to meet.” As if it was something that was shameful. I was conflicted because my heart and soul felt clear and right, but my family didn’t know what authenticity looked like on me. Later, at around age 40, I suffered an economic setback when the housing bubble burst. It left me broke, unhealthy, divorced, and confused. I didn’t know who I was without everything I’d built to that point. I literally went to AA meetings for 3 years crying and trying to stay sober and parent my daughter single handedly. I felt embarrassed to tell my family that I had failed at life. It ended up not really mattering because no one asked. I found support, love, and nurturing in my sober recovery group when my family was absent. Later, at around age 44, I discovered why past relationships felt confusing to me when I learned that I was gay. Interestingly enough, the people I was most afraid to tell were my family. It took a year and a half for me to come out to the three people in my family to which I felt closest. There are a few who love me without reason. There are some who still feel the need to tell me they disagree with my lifestyle. There are some who are just more comfortable when we don’t discuss it. Even after that, expressing and living my personal values from a political viewpoint has further alienated loved ones from me. I’ve accepted that I’m not for everyone. The difference for me is that I don’t pretend to be something I’m not anymore. I am flawed, honest, real, strong, loved, human, and authentic. I am proud of who I am today, and I have nothing to hide. I have a 100% survival rate from the pain I’ve suffered, and I’m a better person for it.
Since then, I look back over the last 50 years of my life, and I compare the person I was as a child to the woman I am now. I hold up a magnifying glass to myself daily and I inspect myself carefully for the nuggets of truth about me that feel right and clear. I pay attention to my intuition and I choose to live in my truth today. My history of not choosing that path has proven that my heart and soul depends upon my own authenticity. I don’t cover my pain with humor, and I speak up, even to family, when something is done or said that contradicts my personal “clear and right”.
The fallout of speaking up for one’s own authenticity is that sometimes it distances one from family. In all fairness, they simply don’t know how to respond when the space where I used to fit is now empty and a new person stands before them. Some of them still see my heart as they’ve seen it all along. Some walked away. I walked away from some who intentionally choose not to see me. I didn’t realize, in some cases, that the last time I spent with some of them was, indeed, the last time I would spend with them.
Today, every day means something to me. Every person to which I give my time is important to me. I choose to give my time and attention to those who want to give their time and attention to me. I choose to live as authentically as I know how to be in this moment, holidays and every day.
I am most assuredly non-traditional. There is no snow falling softly outside my window. There are no unloving, hurtful comments at my holiday celebrations. We did not have turkey and stuffing at our family holiday gathering. My daughter, at age 18, has learned to be bold in expressing her own authenticity, and I couldn’t be more proud of her. Holidays feel clear and right. Happy Holidays from my family to yours.
How Your DNA Can Change The World
I light up her dark eyes. I contribute to the worry lines on her weathered forehead, and to the laugh lines near her soft eyes and soft cheeks. I make her proud just because I exist. I made her a grandmother when she was 43 years young. I was born into a family in which I never fit. Most who share my DNA are strangers who have always spoken a different language than me, figuratively. I was an accident, an unplanned pregnancy. My father, her son, did the honorable thing and married my mother. In the way of her life, she turned lemons into lemonade. I am her first grand.
She put herself through nursing school with four small children at home during a time when women didn’t have “careers”. True to her calling, she cared for me. I’m really not sure that she ever realized she also had a calling for teaching. She taught her children and grandchildren so many things that enriched all of our lives. Mostly, she taught me, with her life, a love of learning. She showed me that one possesses life when she possesses a love of learning something previously unknown. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word Empath. She just knew I felt things more deeply than others. She taught me to read when I was 3 years old, and with that knowledge, she gave me the gift of recognizing the importance of words. Along with that gift, she opened the door to a world that was safe for a sensitive soul. She showed me how to look at the world around me, and describe it in vivid color as I saw it. She practiced writing with me with the patience that only a grandmother can possess. She taught me that details are important in grammar, spelling, and, well, everything. When I was frustrated at my lack of skill, she gently told me over and over to “sound it out”.
Later, when I was old enough to be an awkward middle schooler, she would check me out of school to take me shopping. While I heard “It’s ridiculous to spend that kind of money on designer clothes,” from my mother, my grandmother would buy me the first pair of Nike shoes I ever owned. I remember every detail-white leather with the blue swoosh. I felt like I was on top of the world wearing them to school. She was the first one to point me to my own self-worth. She practiced words with me for spelling bees, and cheered as I won the state championship with the word “lobotomy”.
In high school, she was always up for an adventure with me anytime! She packed up my younger brother and my younger cousin, and loaded them into the backseat of a rebuilt Camaro. She navigated the map while I drove us to a dance event hours away where I would perform with my team. She and the boys cheered and cheered and we all sang at the top of our voices to the radio on the trip home.
Ever the nurse, she came to stay with me for the weekend at the rental house where I lived when I was sick, hours from home at my first job after college. When I moved into an apartment even further away, she drove there so she could take me grocery shopping. She was with me when I bought my first car on my own, and she beamed with pride when she sat at the negotiating table with me and watched me haggle with the salesman at the price.
Today I am 50 years old, and she is 94. I am acutely aware of how lucky I am to have her present in my life today. My own life has woven into an interesting, if not celebrated, tapestry. I am a recovering alcoholic with 24 years sobriety, a divorced mother of one who figured out I am gay at age 44, a runner, a business owner, and an intricately designed human being. She doesn’t understand all of the things I am because her life experiences are not my life experiences, yet she loves me without condition. At 94 years old, she is willing to learn what she doesn’t know. So while we sit together on her front porch rocking, she asks me, “How’s Hope doing? I really like her.” And with one simple phrase, I am reduced to tears by a loving gesture.
She taught me things that cannot be learned from books-intelligence, and how to use it to my advantage; the importance of speaking up, even when its not popular; courage to recognize and come to terms with my own shortcomings; and how to live my truth unapologetically. She has been an elegant warrior her whole life. Her stoic and fierce spirit permeates every cell in my body. Love like this cannot be contained in heritage. I imagine that pieces of her heart ripple through every patient entrusted to her care, and every person she has ever touched with her life. I can take it from here. Every time I touch another with my own life, I am reminded of her legacy. She is an amazing human being. She is a live picture of living life out loud, unapologetically. I can sprinkle her spirit with my own touch because I know how good it feels to be loved with just a few simple words while rocking on a front porch.
