This weekend was really hard. I have to remember to be mindful of my cycle because my pre and post-menstrual times are seriously choppy and emotional times and I am a person who is not comfortable with being emotionally uncomfortable.
I think this has everything to do with being the oldest daughter, middle child and child of an alcoholic, dysfunctional family. I was always the strong child. My older brother and younger sister fell apart so many times growing up, my parents, though divorced, were constantly putting back them back together. I felt I had to be strong, independent and together, not only to benefit my parents, but to feel superior to my siblings. NICE!
My dad went to rehab when I was in second grade. I never knew he had a drinking problem, mostly, because he was never home. I don't have any recollections of him being messy, or passing out... the only thing I can surmise now is that weekend mornings he liked to make greasy egg and mayo sandwiches to ease his hangovers. They were gross and thinking about them now makes me want to hurl.
The day he left for rehab, we told my Nanny he was going to Paris for business, which made sense because he had just gotten back from a month in China. Later that night, my Mom gathered us for dinner and told us that Dad was not only NOT in Paris, but in Riverside hospital, 30 miles away. We were not to tell anyone, especially our grandparents. This had zero affect on me, and I took my plate into the living room to watch television because Three's Company was on reruns and we had gotten to the Terri years. Terri was my favorite blonde.
We would go to family days at Rehab where we would sit though super long meetings with the adults, eat chicken salad croissants for lunch in the cafeteria, and then do child-centric art classes with weird old ladies who really wanted us to be sad. I loved chicken salad croissants, and was so relieved to be able to do some art, that when I got to "sad-sandwich art class", I was usually pretty chipper. I soon realized that if I wanted to get these grief vultures off of my back, I needed to make sad family finger painted portraits and then fake cry so I wouldn't have to talk. This satiated these women, and awarded me time to myself in the corner.
On the way home, we were allowed to rent whatever video we wanted from the video store AND we got to have TV dinners for supper. It was awesome. The Weird Science and Swanson years.
Soon after my dad got sober, he decided he was too selfish to be a full time father, so he moved out. Not having him around was normal, so I really didn't realize how terribly this affected me until I was in my 20s and had developed crippling anxiety, depression and panic attacks.
Today I am mediating about transformation and what it takes. I need to delve into these terrible, very bad things that happened when I was a child in order to put together the puzzle that lead me to hate myself. It's not fun, but transformation rarely is.
The Phoenix has to burn and char before it can rise from the ashes and regain its life.
Pass the matches, please.
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