Inside Looking Out

If you know me, you know that I spend a lot of time in my head. I have done this most of my life. I have very clear memories of analyzing situations exactly the same way I do now, when I was just starting school. And I often wonder if I was the only child in the playground experiencing existential angst.

To be honest, I don’t think I ever identified as a child. This used to get me into all sorts of trouble because it never dawned on me that I needed to ask permission. I lived my young life based on the premise, that since I was able to make a decision, I was able to follow it through. So when I heard an intriguing conversation on the other side of the wall, I climbed the wall and joined in. If I didn’t want to be at school anymore because the teacher hurt my feelings, I walked home. I would play with strange children, go to their houses even if they did not live in my neighbourhood, (one time it was Chinatown) and spend the day with them. Nobody had any idea where I was and it never dawned on me that I needed to tell them.

I used to wonder why I was like this, but now I realize, that I was never considered a child, by those who raised me. I don’t think this was intentional. And I don’t think they ever considered the consequences, because they couldn’t.

I believe that our ability to navigate life successfully comes from the nurturing, or lack of it, we receive growing up. I grew up with extremes. I can’t say I was neglected, or unloved because I wasn’t, not all the time. I was both loved and hated. I was neglected and smothered. I was lauded and torn to shreds. I was supported and opposed. This is what happens when your mother has Borderline Personality Disorder. It wasn’t her fault. She was simply incapable of being a mother to anybody.

But it did leave me scarred, and as they say “whatever doesn’t kill you, leaves you scarred.”

Therapy helped a lot. I would be completely unaware of grey without it. When you are raised in a world of black and white there is no midrange, you have to learn that for yourself. I can’t tell you how peaceful greys are. I’m not a fan of extremes. I try to avoid them, occasionally get drawn into them, have no problem walking away from people who have no midrange.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever reach a point where I am not having to unlearn a pattern that fucks up my life. Will I ever be able to have a healthy, relationship with anyone, who is not a cat? Will I ever have ambition? Will I ever have continuity in my writing? Will I ever be comfortable living in a world that keeps getting smaller and smaller? Will I ever stop sabotaging my dreams? Will I ever stop doubting myself? Will I ever just write? Is being exhausted after working 8 hours an excuse or a death knell to creativity?  I am going to throw on some Monk and see.