I never finished my whole thought from my previous post. You can see with #family drama and subjects like #jack or  #sallie or #lynn (see side column) for what is likely years of how this subject in particular has shaped me. My immediate family was never close, to my knowledge. Even my parents were never really functional, but they divorced as I was barely (if) a teen. I know that happened when I was twelve or thirteen. My sister Lynn and I have been oil and water growing up for a lot of reasons. None of them were her fault, I feel like I can say, but her and I were just the result of our parents. 

These days it only comes back in reflection of ‘what could’ve been’ and I often ask myself what could have been different. What could have made us a close family? I’m no sure there is an answer, but I pondered it a lot over the years:

• IF my parents never moved away from Illinois and stayed close to extended family…
• IF I wasn’t a goofy, queer kid growing up adding stress to an already stressed family…
• …so many IFs

I think the person I am has a lot of my mom and dad in me. I think I got their worst traits for the most part, the things that drove them apart from each other, but have come to form an identity that is really my own at my grand old age of 60 now. My mom passed away 2.5 years ago, and as far as I know, my dad is still alive out there somewhere. 

I have not talked to my sister in any way that was not pure anger on her part in thirty years. She doesn’t know me at all, but she is really blessed with a good husband and some beautiful kids. Other than that we have no connection to each other. 

My mom and I had an argument a year before she died, that put my sister Lynn in the middle of us, and mom ended up alone in a care facility for that time because she lost her house and and could not afford to be on her own. It was all we could do to get her settled somewhere, and I am sure it was heartbreaking. It was for me, anyway, because she passed 2 days after her birthday alone. My sister was freezing her out for some reason. 

And as for my dad, I spent my teen years in his house and it was not good. There never has been anything healthy between us. I was always the kid with the horn coming out of his forehead that was never good enough. I mean, this relationship has been the source of most of my therapy over the years. New things come up here and there that come out of the abyss of things and harm this man did to me growing up. 

It may not sound like it, mostly because I am just venting here, but I came to a conclusion years ago: at a certain age in life you can no longer blame your parents for your problems. It came from a Robert Kawasaki book called “Rich Dad, Poor Dad” I read a hundred years ago. All I can do is try and sort through the mess and make sense of it for me. I can also let go of the past once I put it in order so I can focus on the present. Sigh…