Don't Be Like Me
I feel like I'm becoming an infant again.
There is a white box in my corner cabinet. It doesn't have anything particularly secretive in it, nothing I am trying to hide. Rather, it has only secrets in it. So to the untrained eye it could be perceived that the box has nothing of value.
That box, I thought, was meant to be saved for my future children. But I realized since some time ago, that its meant for another child.
Leah has always had a penchant for keeping things that speak alot in a quiet box.
I was wondering, while contemplating how my own children might be, what kind of life they would have. It's nothing that can be predicted. But, when I think of what I might pass onto them, from my experiences and my personality, I feel like its possible to see a glimmer of who could come of it.
As I thought about my own childhood and life experiences, I became very distraught. Something tore me up inside, and struck a uniquely intense fear in my heart. I wondered, "What if they were just like me?"
What does that mean, on the surface? I feel like maybe it's typical. "Don't grow up to be like me," like a low-life father to his son. Ashamed of yourself, so wishing that your children could be better people. That's not me.
What scares me... is what has made me.
As I'm going back through my memories, and peeling apart the pages that are stuck together, I'm rediscovering the moments in my life that I have forgotten. I'm remembering why I forgot them. A desire to move on, to be different, has erroneously led me to ignore the things that have shaped aspects of my personality.
Recently I'm saying, "It was from my childhood. That's how I was raised. I developed this as a result of my parents and surroundings," and it all sounds like one big excuse.
But it makes me angry.
I keep coming back to those pages. I keep looking at what I have ignored and asking "Why did this happen?"
It may seem like I'm just pouring salt into old wounds so I can lick them again, and play like I'm hurt.
But I'm afraid.
I keep coming back to them, asking "Why", and reevaluating my emotions and reactions to things that have happened to me, not because I want to baby myself... but because I want to change myself.
If being abused as a child, emotionally or otherwise, or being raised with a consuming sense of constant fear has a cause, maybe it has a cure. Maybe, if I find out why I responded to things the way that I did and how that response shaped the way that I think and the way that I experience life, then I can find the secret to becoming someone worth having as a mother.
Maybe I can make sure that my children never have to experience what my parents put me through. Maybe I can prevent them from feeling helpless, lost, insecure, or scared...at least from me. Maybe I can be there for them.
So when I think, "Please, don't be like me," what I really think I'm feeling and trying to say is more like, "I don't want to be like them," and "I don't want you to have to go through the things that I went through."
When I tell my parents about memories I have from childhood, the look they give me is something like bewilderment. "Really, that happened to you?"
I never want to look at my child that way.
I know won't be able to be there for everything, but I want to be there... I want to support them. I want to feel with them, and live with them. I want to watch them grow and cultivate their passions and joy. I want to enjoy life and grow with them.
I feel like I'm becoming an infant, now, so I can rebuild the experiences that shaped my personality. I'm stripping down the layers and ripping old wounds open, now, so they can heal in a way that I never gave them a chance to.
If I can become a better person, now, then maybe that's what I can pass along. Maybe I can end this cycle of fear and pain, and begin one of pure love.
There is a white box in my corner cabinet. It doesn't have anything particularly secretive in it, nothing I am trying to hide. Rather, it has only secrets in it. So to the untrained eye it could be perceived that the box has nothing of value.
That box, I thought, was meant to be saved for my future children. But I realized since some time ago, that its meant for another child.
Leah has always had a penchant for keeping things that speak alot in a quiet box.
I was wondering, while contemplating how my own children might be, what kind of life they would have. It's nothing that can be predicted. But, when I think of what I might pass onto them, from my experiences and my personality, I feel like its possible to see a glimmer of who could come of it.
As I thought about my own childhood and life experiences, I became very distraught. Something tore me up inside, and struck a uniquely intense fear in my heart. I wondered, "What if they were just like me?"
What does that mean, on the surface? I feel like maybe it's typical. "Don't grow up to be like me," like a low-life father to his son. Ashamed of yourself, so wishing that your children could be better people. That's not me.
What scares me... is what has made me.
As I'm going back through my memories, and peeling apart the pages that are stuck together, I'm rediscovering the moments in my life that I have forgotten. I'm remembering why I forgot them. A desire to move on, to be different, has erroneously led me to ignore the things that have shaped aspects of my personality.
Recently I'm saying, "It was from my childhood. That's how I was raised. I developed this as a result of my parents and surroundings," and it all sounds like one big excuse.
But it makes me angry.
I keep coming back to those pages. I keep looking at what I have ignored and asking "Why did this happen?"
It may seem like I'm just pouring salt into old wounds so I can lick them again, and play like I'm hurt.
But I'm afraid.
I keep coming back to them, asking "Why", and reevaluating my emotions and reactions to things that have happened to me, not because I want to baby myself... but because I want to change myself.
If being abused as a child, emotionally or otherwise, or being raised with a consuming sense of constant fear has a cause, maybe it has a cure. Maybe, if I find out why I responded to things the way that I did and how that response shaped the way that I think and the way that I experience life, then I can find the secret to becoming someone worth having as a mother.
Maybe I can make sure that my children never have to experience what my parents put me through. Maybe I can prevent them from feeling helpless, lost, insecure, or scared...at least from me. Maybe I can be there for them.
So when I think, "Please, don't be like me," what I really think I'm feeling and trying to say is more like, "I don't want to be like them," and "I don't want you to have to go through the things that I went through."
When I tell my parents about memories I have from childhood, the look they give me is something like bewilderment. "Really, that happened to you?"
I never want to look at my child that way.
I know won't be able to be there for everything, but I want to be there... I want to support them. I want to feel with them, and live with them. I want to watch them grow and cultivate their passions and joy. I want to enjoy life and grow with them.
I feel like I'm becoming an infant, now, so I can rebuild the experiences that shaped my personality. I'm stripping down the layers and ripping old wounds open, now, so they can heal in a way that I never gave them a chance to.
If I can become a better person, now, then maybe that's what I can pass along. Maybe I can end this cycle of fear and pain, and begin one of pure love.
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