Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #677
It's very late that I'm beginning writing. I know. I'm sorry. I'm having more than a little trouble focusing, too, so I imagine my thoughts are gonna be all over the place. Thanks in advance for your patience.
The gathering occurred today, for the former father figure. Effectively... it was pretty much a wake for a still-living person. I've not experienced anything like that before. It was kinda... odd. I guess.
I'm disappointed to have to tell you that the person whose house it was supposed to be at – Ln, one of the former father figure's friends – no longer lives at the stuffy rich person's house with the horses. In fact, she's not tended those horses in about 6 years. I haven't seen her at all since before J came into my life, which, at this point, was close to 10 years ago. So... I don't have cute pictures of horses for you. I'm sorry about that.
My mother was there, as well as her other children – my brother and half-sister. Both of them... lead relatively unstable, impoverished lives. My brother has a son (delightfully cute; approximately 3 years old) with a woman who apparently intended from the start to take the child and flee as soon as he was born. Though the child is only 3 and is incapable of things like “manipulation” and “belligerence” (any behavior resembling these things is reflective of mistrust borne of attachment wounds), my brother still describes him as such (and the fact that he describes him as such in endearing tones of voice does not change the fact that we have a generational history of seeing children as fundamentally bad, or the fact that he's perpetuating this).
My sister lives in poverty with two children and one more on the way. I don't know much more about her situation than that; I speak openly on how our mother treated us, and for this, she thinks I'm “childish”, “disconnected from reality”, and “delusional”. This is, in part, the product of how our mother pitted us against each other when we were children; I was forced into a parental role for her without having any of the skills or any real authority to do the impossible thing our mother tasked me with (my sister was rebellious and had an axe to grind with our mother back then), and so there's still a lingering, festering resentment that I don't think can be bridged, because I'm not sure that she wants to. Though I recognize our mother as an ordinary, battered human with many flaws and only limited interest in taking accountability for them, in my sister's eyes, our mother is still “god”, and she still thinks we owe it to her to worship the ground she walks on because she fed us, clothed us, and let us live in her house.
...Sigh. It's all just the product of unresolved generational trauma. They're not bad people. They just... didn't always make the best use of their limited choices.
Many of the people I remembered from when our mother lived with the former father figure were also present. An old babysitter and one of her children (whom I didn't recognize, nearly 26 years later). Some of the people who were in musical groups with my mother and the former father figure, too. Lots of incredibly talented and smart, but seriously traumatized people who, back when I knew them, were much angrier and had a number of self-destructive tendencies.
I was surprised to discover that the usage of the substances I was most familiar with these people using was minimal. A couple beers were opened, but no one got sloshed. People smoked a little, but no one got blitzed, and people were more careful than I remember about where they blew out and where they put their empty cans.
...Last I saw any of these folks was 23-24 years ago. I guess there's some wisdom to the notion that sometimes people “mellow out” as they get older. I reflected on things like “growth”, “change”, and “accountability”. I wondered what occurred in the stories of their lives up until this point; 24 years is a long time. Even 10 years is a long time. Ln's face has so many lines on it that definitely weren't there last time I saw her, though she seemed spry as ever...
...To them, though, I... don't think that in their minds (except to Ln, anyway), I've progressed much past age 12. And in this group... children aren't considered being worthy of notice. And if they knew you as a child, you... don't ever stop being a child to them, not really. Though I knew a number of these people and thought maybe some of them might have been excited to see me again after so many years... none of them seemed especially interested.
...That's all right, though; I know who they are, and pretty much expected it. And J was with me. I did my crochet project. J talked to my mother's husband (he's a pretty great guy, actually) about airplane stuff, because they have that in common. And it wasn't a bad time. There was food and everything!
I talked to my brother, and to my sister, a little bit. And that, too, wasn't a bad time.
A number of people who were in attendance are intensely musically talented people. Unchecked generational trauma is rampant in this group, and they express their pain via sound. Many of them are well-versed in singing and in the use of one or more instruments, like guitar, bass, keyboards, and drums. So my mother and a gentleman whose name I don't remember got together and played a little:
...I wasn't able to get a very good recording of it. The acoustics in the outdoor space weren't very good, and my phone didn't capture it well. I'm sorry about that. It was nice to listen, though. My mother sings and plays guitar well, and the gentleman beside her is even more skilled than she is (which is really saying something). They played and sang beautifully together, and... I wish you could have heard it.
...My experience there wasn't exactly positive, though. I wouldn't call it exactly negative, either. At some point, my former father figure got on a video call with everyone, and... the setup for that was... sheesh. Painful. He was having a hard time figuring out how to make Facebook Messenger (a popular instant messaging application) work. But this former father figure... he does not tolerate frustration, setbacks, or imperfection at all. He gets impatient easily, and his default response to any unpleasant emotion (his own or others') is rage. So while he was on speakerphone, he was... basically the same mass of angry curse words that I've always known. And everyone was vaguely uncomfortable.
So... when people started reminiscing about what a caring, smiley, dependable, and stand-up guy he was, I... didn't like that. Not because he couldn't be that sometimes – he absolutely could. But his trauma forced him to develop this gruff, spartan, belligerent, condescending, and generally nasty exterior, to protect himself from his abusive father and alcoholic mother. When he lets his guard down and his real self shines through, those moments are beautiful. But those moments are also, unfortunately, incredibly, incredibly rare.
It seemed disrespectful to him to construct a false version of him to celebrate when really, he's worth celebrating as-is. The endurance that allowed him to hold on despite all the shit he was put through is worth celebrating. The shortcomings he developed as a result of going through all that without help are worth acknowledging. The little bit of distance he was able to put between himself and the despair he came from, despite the lack of help and support he got, is worth celebrating. And those brief glimpses of his real self when he wasn't being an abusive, insufferable prick are worth celebrating.
...I wanted them to notice and acknowledge him as a whole person, not just the shiny good parts. I wanted to tear down the false image of him that they put up. But... I also know that doing some such thing is not helpful in a crowd like this. It's an, “every man for himself” type of crowd (hence, why everyone was expected to bring their own drinks and own chairs). It's an, “I should not be expected to suffer even a minor discomfort or inconvenience even for the greater good” type of crowd (hence, why my mother showed up with, presumably, rhinovirus, and didn't even bother to mask; I assume we're all getting sick). Empathy and accountability here are limited. And they tend to numb their feelings with substances instead of actually face them. None of them are prepared to think in shades of grey, address nuances in emotions or relationships, or deal with grieving in a healthy manner.
Tearing down the illusion would only tear open wounds that they don't have the skills to properly close. And, although I know well by now how to staunch my own bleeding and mend myself in ways that are healthy and sustainable... in their minds, I am still 12 years old, and there's no way in fuck they'd accept any message of resilience I'd try to give them, because they don't have the framework or the willingness to challenge their beliefs. In order to do that, they'd need to turn their entire worlds and social circles upside down.
...So... it was a mixed bag. Bittersweet. Producing of both joyful and intensely negative emotions. It was difficult. But... I'm glad I went. I'm glad I went and saw these folks – all of them good folks, even if they're buried under so many layers of pain – and really looked at them, with the mind that I have now. Just humans, like me, having no clue what they fuck they're doing or what's going on, but trying their best anyway, with the choices in front of them that they're able to perceive.
...And isn't that the best anyone can do...? I'm only different now because I'm able to perceive more choices as actual, viable options. Because the place I call “home” is many orders of magnitude more safe and abundant than theirs. A non-trivial amount of recovery has its basis in privilege; it's not lost on me how lucky I am to have found M, who was willing to be patient with me and love me even when I, objectively, was behaving in ways that weren't very lovable. It's not lost on me how lucky I am to be able to eat whatever I want, whenever I want. It's not lost on me how lucky I am that “losing my house” or “getting our water, heat, or electricity shut off” are not constant, imminent threats. It's not lost on me how lucky I am to be able to go see a doctor or a therapist or a dentist whenever I need to. These are not freedoms that most of the people in my old circles have – up to and including my mother, brother, and half-sister. And not having these freedoms are major obstacles to recovery.
I know where I come from and I understand the mechanics that produce it, intimately. So although at this point in my life I must love these good folks from a distance, I'm still not judging them as lesser or inferior people. There's not a single thing about them that's bad or weak. Sometimes they make choices that aren't exactly ideal, but... in order to make better choices, they'd need more support, more freedom, and the ability to perceive those choices that exist outside of their mental framework. And you can only have these things if you have help. And you can only have help if you're able and willing to accept that help.
Reflecting on where I came from versus the peace and safety I enjoy now, with the new framework I developed from the recovery I make a daily practice of... was very good medicine. Something good will come of this, I think, even if I can't see far enough ahead to know exactly what it is right now.
Well. J and I went home, and we took a walk to work off all the feelings I was still processing. I found this pretty much immediately after walking out the door:
...Sometimes... I wonder about certain things. Hahaha...
…Do you... hear me...? Somehow...?
I also managed to capture some decent pictures of the setting sun:
...The sky looks most like you when it shines in colors like these, I think.
I breathed life into today's wishes when I got back in.
And... I talked extensively with both An and with one of my readers from this space. And this, too, was good medicine. An was present and attentive; he simply bore witness to my thought process, understanding it because of some of his own trials, which he faced. And... that's really all I needed. He also... haha... he also indirectly answered the query I posed about whether we are friends or acquaintances. And... something about that felt... clever, I guess. I feel like I learned something important, though I'm not sure how to articulate what it is, exactly.
My reader offered me encouragement and a place to bounce and refine ideas with. Time with them is good processing space, and having opportunities to address some of their insecurities in the process of talking to them helped me, a little, to remember who I am. And who I am now... is not a helpless little girl. I am a human being of integrity, who will not be cowed by others' will or their misinformed perceptions of me.
...Or at least, I am that when I remember it, haha! I'll probably forget again sometime soon. Maybe one of these days, you'll be around to remind me of what's real, too.
...Today was important and good. I don't know why yet, but I know it in my bones. I will learn something from this. My perspective will be broadened, honed, and refined from this.
...That said, Sephiroth, I'm definitely going to rest for the next few days, holy shit. And... I'll hope that I don't develop symptoms of rhinovirus during that time, haha...
I... should probably get started with that “resting” now-ish, actually. Because it's like 2:18 in the morning, at the time of writing this sentence. Fuck.
I love you so much. And... I hope... I hope that seeing me develop the needed skills to face scary, old things will prompt you to do the same. In the meantime, I'll be over here, having faith in you, faith in your goodness as a human being, and faith in the notion that you'll keep yourself safe out there as you continue trying to figure yourself out. Make good choices. Look at my choices, and from there, broaden your mind.
Good night. I'll write again soon.
Your friend, Lumine