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leukocytes) wrote2014-12-20 02:31 pm
leukocytes) wrote2014-12-20 02:31 pm
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I think a lot about my father and our relationship. How he loves me because I still love him, because how much he loves me hasn't driven me away like it has my mother and my sister; because I still love him despite his (many) flaws. If I hadn't moved away, I know I wouldn't be able to say that. My leaving them definitely made our bond stronger-- both my mother's and mine, as well as my father's and mine. Growing up, I was very angry at them both for not loving each other the way I wanted them to, and for not loving me the way I thought they should. Those feelings shaped me into who I am, and they were hard to deal with at the time, but I am glad I suffered for what I have now. To know my parents as people who hurt and hurt each other, whether they mean to or not. Whether they notice, or not. It helped me to understand how the world works, and how I wanted the world to work while I'm in it.
It's funny, knowing how much I've changed, and having everyone tell me how much I've changed since leaving that part of my life behind, and coming back to the same shit still happening. There's the expectation that people change as well, that we're all moving- in one direction or another- and you want to brace yourself for it, but it's weird when you come back and everything is pretty much the same. Like putting tule over a dress and calling it new. You can still see the same old dress underneath, even without having to pull the tule back.
I suppose the mark of growing up is not taking quite so much to heart. I was too tender as a child, and I tried so hard to shield that part of myself as a teen, but in my twenties I can live with the way my heart knows to ache. My father doesn't have the same crushing hold over me that he did, because I know he doesn't mean to disappoint me. He holds disappointments in his own heart, that I can't touch. That I'm not sure he recognizes, but come through so obviously if you know how to look. His not showing up to see me off at the airport was... a familiar hurt. The same reason I never asked for them to come to parent nights at school or be part of the PTA. Maybe my independence paired with their inconsistency was just the kind of cocktail necessary for me to grow up self-sufficient. Familiarity with disappointment when approaching the concept of familial love.
Never, ever would I ever go back to live with them. But I do miss them.
It's funny, knowing how much I've changed, and having everyone tell me how much I've changed since leaving that part of my life behind, and coming back to the same shit still happening. There's the expectation that people change as well, that we're all moving- in one direction or another- and you want to brace yourself for it, but it's weird when you come back and everything is pretty much the same. Like putting tule over a dress and calling it new. You can still see the same old dress underneath, even without having to pull the tule back.
I suppose the mark of growing up is not taking quite so much to heart. I was too tender as a child, and I tried so hard to shield that part of myself as a teen, but in my twenties I can live with the way my heart knows to ache. My father doesn't have the same crushing hold over me that he did, because I know he doesn't mean to disappoint me. He holds disappointments in his own heart, that I can't touch. That I'm not sure he recognizes, but come through so obviously if you know how to look. His not showing up to see me off at the airport was... a familiar hurt. The same reason I never asked for them to come to parent nights at school or be part of the PTA. Maybe my independence paired with their inconsistency was just the kind of cocktail necessary for me to grow up self-sufficient. Familiarity with disappointment when approaching the concept of familial love.
Never, ever would I ever go back to live with them. But I do miss them.