To Find Meaning In My Life

"Compassion is sometimes the fatal capacity for feeling what it is like to live inside somebody else's skin.  It is the knowledge that there can never really be any peace and joy for me until there is peace and joy finally for you too."

- Frederick Buechner

If I could take on the burdens and pain of those I love, I would without hesitation.  I've always found myself to be a very compassionate, empathetic person; sometimes to a fault.  But as the years have gone by, I have slowly allowed it to envelope me.  It makes me feel as if I am a better person, that maybe, even if only on a small scale I can make a difference in the world.  That's all I really want out of this life; is to make a difference, to touch someones heart, to give them what unrequited desires I had, the love and acceptance that I have longed for for as long as I can remember. 

I'm not saying I want to be the next Mother Theresa or Gandhi.  But just to make someones life a little easier.  A couple days ago, I was told I was a great friend.  Now this isn't the first time I've heard that, but there was something about this last time where I actually believed it 100% in my heart.  It wasn't until I was searching for a response that the words "It's what I'm here for." came into my mind.  When I said those words, it took me by surprise.  It was like the first time you see fireworks as a kid.  I was in awe and wonderment as to why it's taken me so long to finally see what I've known so much about for so long.

It was definitely more of an awakening in my soul that took place with those few words.  I understand now why it is important to me to be a good friend, to be the best friend one can turn to.  I never had that until this last year.  I know I'm a little all over the place and my emotions have their way of running the show no matter how hard I fight them sometimes, but this is the first time in so long that I've actually felt I make a difference even if it's only minuscule.  I'm happy with that. 

Should My Story Be Told?

"The best biographies leave their readers with a sense of having all but entered into a second life and of having come to know another human being in some ways better than he knew himself."

- Mary Cable

I've always loved to write.  Whether it was short stories, poems, or passages in a journal, I always felt a sense of security in my writings.  Never left me ashamed or embarrassed about what I was feeling or thinking.  It has always been just for me.  Much as the reasoning behind being so private in the blogging world.  It is after all just another outlet, one where I get to choose who in my daily life can view and the rest are random strangers out in the universe.  What do I care what they think?  It's not like they'll see me at the store and say, oh, she wrote this the other day. 

I've long thought about keeping a journal, something hand written, but the problem with doing so is I often worry that it'll fall into the wrong hands. There are just some things that I'm not yet ready to share with those who I'm close with.  Sometimes, it's more out of concern that they'll consider my words to be more serious than at times they really are.  For example, if I'm having a bad day, I may say somethings that spike worry about my mentality and depression levels.  When it's happened in the past, I took me months to convince them that it was just a bad day.  Now grant it, there are times that I have more bad days than good, but does that mean I'm going to end my life that month? No.  I have two very good reasons to never take my own life.

But I've come to wonder what it would be like for my daughter or son to read through my thoughts when I'm gone.  What would they think?  Would they have already known the struggles I've kept buried deep inside?  Do I do as good of a job hiding it as I've let myself believe?  It just fascinates me.  The idea of them or any of those I love to go through and read my private thoughts.  How would they react? Would it give them a better understanding of who I am?  I certainly hope they don't understand in the sense that I wouldn't want them to have to know the feelings that I keep locked inside.  Who would want their loved ones to feel as if they've never known themselves, never having been comfortable in their own skin, to be tormented by the awful thoughts that run rampant? I would never wish that on anyone, especially not those I love. 

So maybe one day, when I'm old and gray, I'll let them take a look at everything I've compiled over the years, but for now, this is just for me and those I choose to let see.  I think of what it would be like, what I would title a biography depicting me, how it would be laid out, would I spill everything or will I always have skeletons in my closet?  Which makes me think what if my dad had written everything down?  Would it be of a comfort?  Would I understand why he was the way he was?  Those are the questions that leave me to almost want to leave a piece of myself behind. 

The Missing Pieces

"There will always be missing pieces to one's family history.  Everyone has something to hide."

- Babers

It's been on my mind.  The missing links.  You hear some of the whispers, you pick up on the secrets, but you never really know the truth.  I like to think of my family's history kind of in the same way one could look at a classic mob family mentality.  In your own little pod, from the outside looking in, you see a loving family, strong sense of community, but you would never expect the seedy underbelly of the unit. 

That may be an awful way to describe my family as we are no where near being a mob in any meaning of the term.  But take the movie "Goodfellas" and watch a few of the family scenes.  You can see the love and protection for one another, but then fast forward to a few of the family disgracing scenes and you see how quickly that love can fade.  The secrets, the hushed voices, the ignorance is bliss, looking the other way, you see it all. 

And in my family you hear it all, but you never really get the truth.  Now whether it's out of pride or shame, no matter who you talk to or how many times you talk to the same person you never really get the same answer, much less a straight answer.

There are a few questions I have regarding my family history.  Some of which, after much digging, I have found the answers to.  For example the reason my great grandfather hated his father was because he was a drunk that beat his mother to near death before his very eyes.  Others, I believe I've gotten partial truths to, like the mysterious brother my great grandmother had.  During a search I came across his birth certificate and death certificate, but when asked about him, to my grandma he didn't exist.  It wasn't until the final few months of her life when I was helping to take care of her in one of our conversations did I find some answers.  From what she was willing to share, all I know of him, is he must have had some kind of mental handicap or disorder and that her parents kept him from the time he was about 5 years old until his death, locked in a cage until his death.  And while these may be the more disturbing facts of my family history there has always been one searing question that I will actively pursue until my very own death. 

My father passed away not knowing the answer and that was the one thing he truly wanted to know, to understand in his final days.  And yet, he was never given the truth.  It makes me so angry that his own mother would deny him of this.  In fact it makes me disgust her. 

My father was the eldest of five children of this woman's bearings.  One sibling whom is only a half sibling.  When my father was young, from what I gather he was between the ages of 5 and 7 when he was left with my great grandparents to live.  I've heard many different stories about why he went there in the first place.  The first story I was told, was that his mother and father were fighting, and yes, my dads father could be a mean drunk when he succumbed to the alcohol, though he did not drink daily, it was often enough.  But then what contradicts this, is the fact she went on to have 3 additional children with the same man and they were never left behind.  When she had her youngest son, the story changed into Bill, her then new and current husband, did not get along with my father.  I'm sorry, but who gives a fuck?  Bill was a grown man and my father, just a child.  Make them work it out. At least that's how I see it.  Now I've often asked myself why my grandfather did not have custody of my father and the facts say it was a combination between the fact that he started abusing the alcohol regularly, had a horrendous work schedule, and as time went on, chose to be a dead beat dad.  Any given combination of stories have been told, they were hard up for money, they didn't get along, etc. blah blah blah.  None of it adds up.  I'm sorry, but how can you leave a child behind, go and have 4 more kids, and never go back for your first born?  There is so much more than what they are willing to admit to.  I've tried speaking to my great grandfather and grandmother regarding this as my grandfather passed away when I was just 3 years old, and they were never willing to speak of it.  I've tried talking to my fathers mother and she gives the run around.  My father died not knowing why he wasn't good enough. Why he wasn't the same as the others.  What made him so different?

I've come up with a theory though.  I've always noticed my great grandfather as being a very "touchy feely" man never inappropriate with his grand kids or children in general, but for example, he liked to squeeze my mothers shoulder in a way that made her uneasy, things like that.  And the only theory that makes sense to me, is that instead of my father's dad being my grandfather who passed when I was 3, is really the man I've grown to believe to be my great grandfather. 

Why else would it be such a dirty secret that no one wants to talk about?  Why else would she not have gone back for him?  Why was there such a deep hatred between my fathers mother and my great grandparents?  Whatever the reason is, I will find out the truth.  I don't care how many people I piss off along the way.  The man's dying wish had gone unanswered, as his daughter I feel it is my obligation to find out for him. 

EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!

"Music is my religion.  It is the thing I turn to in times of grief, despair, and joy.  Music is the one constant in my life that has not let me down."

- Babers

Okay, so perhaps the title of this post really doesn't match with the article, but that's what popped into my head.  So it stays.  There has always been one constant in my life that I have come dependent upon and that is my love of music. 

In the ways people of religious faith turn to their god in times of need, music is my first choice.  I remember it being a comfort for as far back as I can remember.  Thankfully with my love of music it also comes in a wide variety. I absolutely adore most anything.  It all depends on the mood. 

So here's my reason for this post in an effort to constantly update the music on my blog I was going through and adding a few new songs, only to find in my dismay that the website where I create my playlist does not seem to have half of the songs I wanted to add today.  What a shame.  There have been so many songs that I've wanted to put on here, but simply can't.  Now I haven't taken the time to see if I can add these songs to the website so I can add them to my playlist, but that's an awful lot of work.  And let's face it, sometimes, I can be lazy.

So there's my little rant for the day. Sorry there wasn't much depth in the post today. I'll try harder next time. 

Sit Back & Laugh

"Every parent will have their breaking moment, where the only thing they can do is sit back, shake their head and laugh at the mess."

- Babers

I have many of these moments.  Often they come at my own fault. I was in the shower just a bit too long, I was busy making supper, I was sitting right there and watched it happen.  Okay so the last one takes a bit to own up to, but I'll admit, it happens. 

Sometimes I get so intrigued by my children that I swear if I let them, they would tear the house down.  Tonight, I had one of those moments.  My daughter who's just shy of her second birthday grabbed the open bag of cereal off of the table, a bowl from the kitchen counter where it was drying (mind you, she had to push a chair from the dining room into the kitchen in order to reach it) and preceded to make her way over to sit down on the treadmill.  She then poured herself a bowl of cereal, spilling everywhere I might add, looked at me and said, I'm a kitty and then leaned over her bowl to eat. 

Of course she made a mess, I now have ground Honey Nut Scooters under and around the track of the treadmill, but the way I look at it, the Scooters can be vacuumed up, who's to stifle her imagination.  I certainly won't.  I love to watch her progress.  She amazes me every single day. 

Run Vs. Learn

"Simba: I know what I have to do. But going back will mean facing my past.  I’ve been running from it for so long.

Rafiki: It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.

Simba: Yeah, but it still hurts.

Rafiki: Oh yes, the past can hurt.  But the way I see it, you can either run from it, or learn from it."

- The Lion King

Who knew there could be so much wisdom and I use that term lightly here, in a Disney movie?  The Lion King is probably my favorite childhood movie, though it's endearment to me had definitely fallen ten fold with the over whelming feeling of relation as years past.

Sometimes, I sit in contemplation of who I am, where I'm heading and where I've come from.  They answers at times all seem so fuzzy.  Why is it that for some it seems to be so easy to overcome their pasts while I can't even get the strength to even consider an in depth look on most days?  It's a constant struggle; in order to answer the first two questions, I must rely on the answer to the last question. 

But it doesn't appear to be so simple.  It's damaging at best. I think about the person I was, the life I had, and at times am thankful to have engaged in those experiences, as I wouldn't be the person I am now, whomever that may be.  And yet, the memories take control and my mind whisks me away to a time of depression and desperation.  When that happens, I get myself locked into the same old mode.  Like a switch has broken and I can't go back to the present, even though I'm currently living in it. Then again, sometimes, the present it just as bad as the past, in a completely different context so I feel as I'm stuck in some form of limbo within my own brain. 

Compulsions take over and I run on auto pilot.  I don't know if I'm ever really in control.  While even though it seems everything is in order and running as it should and that I have control over my every day life, how much control do you have if you're simply running through the motions?  Almost like I'm a car with the cruise control set. Sure I can keep the pace of the necessary situation, but aside from that, inside of me, if I don't find some sort of driver, I'm heading for the next big crash.

I guess it's time to choose, run or learn.

Decided to try the blog realm via text messaging. Thought it would be a good addition to have especially during my trip. We'll see how I like it.