Happy New Year, folks. I hope yours was a safe and exciting one. Mine was fantastic. I didn’t get my sexy midnight kiss (Rich had to work until 2am), but this is the type of partier with which I had the honor of partying, and between this yahoo’s open-mouthed drool bombs and his sisters’ suffocating trampoline kisses, I wouldn’t say I was without.
It’s hard not to reflect on the past, what with commercial slideshows of triumphs and tragedy (Nelson Mandela, Margaret Thatcher and Paul Walker in the same spread? I think Paul Walker was great, but I couldn’t suppress a laugh).
So I had a few conversations about a few things. Holy cow, I can’t believe so much has happened in so little time, isn’t it crazy that just one year ago I…and etc. What pervaded them all was this kind of disturbing sensation: I have NO connection with my old selfs.
People go through tremendous adversity and come out real dedicators to the well-being of this universe. I know several myself, and I know full well that my own tragedies are minuscule in comparison.
But these things were very tragic to me, and are at the forefront of reverie in times like these, when not even Alan Thicke can stand in the way of scored self-psychoanalyzation. So it was with a glass of red wine in hand and my mom’s kitchen in the background that I did just that.
Do I run away from myself? I’ve been accused of running away from friendships, not wanting to face the requisite call-back ‘what took you so long?’ It’s an obvious defense mechanism, but little slivers of guilt persist and challenge me at my most ‘content’. So what about myself of two years ago? I think about her in her most horrific moments, and I have no connection with her. Is that good? Am I truly moved on, or am I ignoring a trailing monster?
I’m happy now, truly and deeply. My children are healthy, I’m very much in love, and I’ve been slapped in the face with loyalty. I never thought I’d meet real honesty, but I did. And it’s constant and supportive, and has a wide-reaching net for every time I think I’m falling.
I have so few connections with my past. I sometimes imagine it as a slowly burning photograph, emptying snake-smokes of nothing into a vast, empty space. I went back for my fifth yr high school reunion (ten yrs ago), and sat with a friend (who has lovingly reaccepted me as a best friend) and just stared at her and her husband. It was only five years later and I hadn’t the slightest idea of who my high school self was. It was surreal to me that these two people knew and had memories of that person.
I swear I am a functioning, healthy parent and partner. But this character defect of mine seems to me something worth examining. Shutting off my memory hasn’t only bandaged my wounds; it’s covered a lot of the healthy skin around it. So that’s my resolution: to not accept my habits as inevitable, but to find a way to know all versions of myself, so that I’ll truly be free of the past. I want my kids to have scrap books and photo albums, and to be able to construct accessible memory. I want them to see that I can do that, also.