Being an Adult Orphan

I’ve been thinking a lot the last couple of days about my last post and I really feel I must clarify a couple of things. Being an adult orphan (and yes, it sounds strange, but lots of people seemingly feel the same way as I’ve discovered through various google searches) creates some strange notions and feelings. The line by Sandra Bullock of “I forgot” just resonated with this sentiment so well. But upon reflection, the post may make it sound as if I am all alone, and that’s just not so.

I have a few good friends, very good ones indeed. Some are my age, some are those who were friends with my father/parents and have reached out to me, some come into one’s life quickly and disappear just as fast. I have had friends who have believed in me enough to financially invest in my new business venture. I have friends who will go out and have a drink when I just need to blow off some steam. I have a roommate who surprises me from time to time with a clean house – knowing that I am stressing about how I can possibly get everything done. I am truly grateful for the friends I do have.

But, that doesn’t change the lack of family feeling. I’ve been on my own now for almost 9 yrs – and by that I mean without parents or close, caring relatives. I’ve traveled a great deal in my life and moved around a lot on my own. And it was easy to do when I knew that I always had family back home thinking about me and providing a safety net if I needed one. Fortunately, I rarely did, but it doesn’t change the fact that at least I knew it was there. Now, I don’t have a safety net. My friends are getting married. The dynamics are changing and I don’t always know where I fit. I’m thrilled for them, really, I am. But it does place me back into a wanderlust mode – both imaginary and real.

I hear all the time how strong and independent I am. “Of course I am,” I think. I haven’t had much choice in the matter. This also proves to be a challenge when dating. I’m perfectly fine being feminine and vulnerable, but honestly, I forget how, I don’t get to do it often enough. It doesn’t help I was mostly raised by men. I have also forgotten how to be a part of something since I’ve had only myself to depend on for some time. Ot goes without saying that this is also a challenge when dating.

So, for now, I guess I’m just walking along, following a path that seems right for the time being. But my mind is wandering. And the dreams are still working their way into becoming a reality.

 

A-ha moments

I feel like I’ve had a few of them lately, but none of them are completely clear. Much like that last sentence. Forgive me as I ramble.

After a week of lots of great news and business developments, littered with lots of big setbacks, I decided to crawl into bed on Sunday and stay there most of the day, watching a couple of movies. One I expected to make me cry – and hoped it would – “Into the Wild” and the other, “Feast of Love” to hopefully have a few laughs. I found both made me a bit of a blithering idiot. And in times like this, I find a movie that makes me cry to be very therapeutic. Helps me cleanse the system if you will.

I know I relate to movies in weird ways. Most of my close friends could tell you this. “The Matador,” while quite funny, did make me cry at one point. To which my friend John looked at me and in total disbelief said, “Are you crying??” I was. It’s when Pierce Brosnan’s character suddenly realizes he has no one to spend his birthday with; how alone he had become. I couldn’t help but relate to that moment. And another strange response, “The Exorcist” didn’t scare me, it made me sad as well. I didn’t cry, but I was really depressed after watching it. I couldn’t imagine such futility, desperation and helplessness by all people involved. “Seven Pounds” and “Married People” both pissed me off for similar but different reasons. Essentially, I hate the idea of people making decisions for others in a way that somehow makes them look self-less, when really it’s incredibly selfish.

So, this weekend, Father’s Day weekend, the obvious reason for my sadness was missing my Dad. But it was more than that this year. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was more than him just not being here. Seemingly not related, but was… another “a-ha” was that I really feel I need to be living somewhere else, or that my life isn’t quite where I want it yet. It took a little line in “The Proposal” for me to put it all together.
Sandra Bullock’s character freaks out and when Ryan Reynold’s character manages to get an answer out of her, she says, very simply, “I forgot.” He looks confused. She’s angry, sad, etc. She finishes, “I forgot what it’s like to have a family.” And then it hit me.

I can’t remember the last time I was hugged just for walking in the door. I can’t remember a “safe” feeling. I can’t remember feeling like a part of something. You might be wondering what this has to do with not feeling like I’m living in the right place and rightfully so. But I think it’s because I continually imagine myself living in a small, seaside town. A place where I am a part of something. Where the town is like a family. Where I am a part of that family. When I have traveled in the past, more in my youth, that’s when I felt most at home, in a small town, where the residents wrapped their arms around me and made me feel as if I had always belonged there.

I just want that feeling again. I want to remember what it’s like to be a part of a family again. Before I forget for good. That may sound terribly sad, but in a weird way, I’m actually more hopeful than anything else.

 

Lessons from my Childhood

As I sit here tonight watching my DVR’d episode of ER ‘The Family Man,’ I am reminded of the confusion and hurt surrounding my mother’s death and how it not only affected me as a child, but also as an adult. In this episode, a mother and daughter are in a car crash and as her mother’s heart starts to fail. Initially, they’re letting her be a part of all that is happening and explaining it step by step. But eventually, as the situation worsens, the daughter is taken, screaming, from the emergency room.

I know they believe they are doing right by the daughter. It seems the obvious choice to shield her from what most would consider scarring memories. We are not taught how to act in these situations. They remove her as an act of love and protection. I wish I hadn’t been protected. I couldn’t have voiced that opinion at 10, but I can voice it now.

My mother had MS (multiple sclerosis). She was 80% diagnosed when I was seven and 100% diagnosed six months before she died. We did not have a good relationship. That’s another story. When she finally went into rehab, it was only a couple weeks after my 11th birthday. She went downhill rapidly. Very rapidly. She spent two weeks in the rehab center – to the day. And she died in a nursing home two weeks later – to the day. Within a couple of days in rehab, she gave up. She went from talking and walking – not well, but she could still be recognized as a ‘whole’ person – to complete vegetative in less than two weeks time.

Once my mother was moved into the nursing home,  my father fianlly set me down and said my mother would most likely die before summer was over. This was actually close to after the two weeks she was in there and the last day of 5th grade for me. We left on a short vacation the next day – and she died. They (my dad and grandmother) decided that it would be better for me to be out of town when she passed. They gave me one whole day to reconcile that she wouldn’t make it through the summer – I hadn’t quite done that when she passed.

I may tell the story of my mother’s passing another time, but for today, I can only say that they thought they were protecting me from her death. I needed to see her. I should have seen her dead. It took me years of dreaming that she would come back to life only to die all over again – usually in a heroic act. These dreams didn’t stop until high school.

I know they thought they were making the best decision. I don’t begrudge them that. However, I think we sell our children short. Kids can handle a lot more than most would give them credit. Honesty is a blessing, even when it hurts. Because then, at least they (we) know). If you think this doesn’t affect us into our adulthood, you’d be wrong.