Home felt like a sickness I had to shake. So much of what was there told me I was worthless, including me.
Should I be thankful my mom made me live in our basement and subjected me to abuse? Did very little to see that I was protected in an environment that was at the very least, a danger? I don't know. I know I am not really angry about it anymore. I consider it the way I consider any of the historical events of the last 100 years. They happened. Some were atrocious. Some were wonderful. But all of the events occurred.
I got out so I could create a new version of myself. A version who would not be so shitty. A version away from everything that supported that shitty belief system. That was 24 years ago and I am just coming to understand that this new version is just about complete. I think. I don't know, actually, I might want to change some things around in a few years.
I was there again just a few weeks ago, home. It was everything that I remembered, but it was more. It was the hot beef sandwich at Johnnie's that brought me a perfect comfort I have not found in any of my new homes. It was the hours of inhaling the filth of cigarette smoke so I could hang out with one of my oldest friends. It was eating cake with the human I first grew with. It was meeting new people with the old accent I love so much.
There is part of me that wishes my parents were alive so that they could see how far I have come. The other part of me is scared that if they were still alive, I might not have come as far. That is how my life used to be. I made choices, very often based on what I thought people would think or say. Very often based on whether or not I thought my Dad would approve.
I read something recently about emotional anchors. These are events which totally destroy who you think you are, events which push you to re-build. I am riding the lip of a wave caused by the plummet of my last emotional anchor, one I refer to as The Epic Tale of Death and Dismemberment. My titles are usually both cliche and overstated. That is how I roll.
Some of the best things in my life right now are a direct result of The Epic Tale of Death and Dismemberment. This is why it makes it easier to look back. It makes it easier to go back. That shit did not kill me. That shit made me.
I know that if I ignored those events or charged them with some type of destructive emotion, I would continue to make bad choices. I would continue to behave in a strictly selfish way, all the while causing pain to those around me and in essence, causing myself a great deal of pain as well.
But my last great anchor keeps me from it. For that, I must be grateful. I have no other choice.
I am sure that at some point down the road another thing will happen. I will bring something upon myself or the universe will conspire to teach me my next great lesson. I am good with that. I know that one way or another, I will use the pain to learn the lesson. I will use deceitful people to trust all humans more. I will take highly emotional and traumatic events and use them to stay calm in any situation. I will take the shit and turn it into veggies. Yeah, the shit I speak of is manure; highly beneficial if you put it in the right places.
To grow is the thing. It is sometimes painful, sometimes embarrassing, sometimes quite invigorating. But it is the growth that I seek. I have sought it out since I first left the home that I felt might kill me young.
It disturbs some of my friends, what I put myself through, but it is necessary. I want to see how far I can go, how big the wave will be that I choose to ride. I do believe that the shit in our lives can be used for exponential growth. It is only a matter of how far you are willing to take it. How much you are willing to do with your pain. How wide you are willing to crack your cold body open to let the light in and warm your blood and bones.
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