I don’t know why it has entered my mind, but I’ve been dwelling on a lot of things in my past lately. You know, the usual: regrets, things that might have been, things I wish I had done differently, things I wish I could have prevented.
It’s no secret that I regret ever getting involved with my ex. And to be quite honest, I’m surprised that I’m still here to talk about it. I won’t go into the gorey details, as I am trying to move on with my life. But I consider myself lucky to still have my life … there’s no telling what he would have done if I had pushed him further.
BUT I am now on the other hand — had I not endured that whole miserable ordeal, I would not have met my Beloved. I have the love and trust of a wonderful man, I have a beautiful little girl, I finally have a *home*. And I would not trade them for anything in the world. But sometimes I can’t help the nagging feeling that I could help give them a better life. I would love to be able to go out and buy Jessie any and every game she wants and not have to think twice about it. I would love to be able to buy Jim every technological toy his heart desires. I want to give them the world and more. I know it’s that my love truly matters, and not material possessions … but I still wish to give them nice things.
My life was ultimately and truly changed for the better, but it came at a price and with a very expensive lesson.
My mind often wanders to thoughts about my parents — especially my father. He’s not my father by birth, and I do not think he knows that I know of my adoption. Our relationship has never been good, but until about 2 years ago, it was slowly progressing. The events of the last 2-3 years has scarred the ties I had to both my mother and my father. There are still times when my father will not speak to me.
Last summer he told me that I was a disappointment to him, I brought him shame. And even though I know this should not bother me, it does. I understand that children feel a need to be justified and appreciated by their parents, and I am no different. There was a short time when my father was proud of me, and went to great lengths to say so. I never had that growing up. Even now I yearn to hear him tell me that it’s ok that my life did not turn out as he would have liked. That it’s ok that I have made mistakes and am trying to get things fixed on my own. But I know it will never happen. I don’t like it, but I have accepted it. I have never been good at asking for help, especially if it always came with strings attached.
I only hope that in time hard feelings will fade away and wounds will heal.
I keep thinking about my grandfather’s passing. He was my mother’s father, and I was very close to him growing up. He always made me feel special — out of all the grandkids, I was the only one with a nickname. To this day, I can never remember him calling me by my real name. I was always “Tater” to Gramps. Apparently when I was born, I was bald for a long time, and I guess Gramps thought I looked like a potato or something. *smile*
When he died, I took it really hard. It’s not that it was anything sudden … in fact, he had been sick for a very long time. I helped my grandmother and aunts take care of him. It killed me to see him slowly die before my very eyes. I used to stay with my grandmother on weekends after work and during the week after school to help her watch him and take care of him.
I had just turned 20 when he passed away. I can remember my mother crying, yelling at my dad for something insignificant. Family members being comforting each other. And I remember feeling so small and alone. When it came time for the wake and the funeral, my father told me that he didn’t want me “crying and carrying on” … I had to be “strong” for my mother. I remember feeling so hurt and dejected. At the time, I was angry because I felt like I was being denied my right to grieve. Looking back, I think Dad was just trying to help me and support me in his own way.