After reading my first two posts, J asked what spurred my return to my family of origin drama. My retort: when did I ever leave it? Reality is - the soup in which one is cooked during childhood flavors the remainder of life. I consider myself lucky to have J as opposed to all the other boyfriends past who dramatized my life with the spices of my childhood: addiction, indifference, misogyny (and more!). I got out of the bowl, by Grace alone, but the broth soaks in deep. Okay, enough soup metaphor. . .
I don’t care to wallow in all the crazy of my past, but I find its subterfugery sprinkled in the most mundane daily occurrences. Why did this exchange with a coworker twist me in knots? Why are my shoulders often tight or my stomach clinched for no apparent reason? Evidence less mundane exists, too, like how easily I distrust others or, on the flip side, how the feeling of safety alludes me. I get tired of “rehearsing” my past; I also tire of feeling separated from life.
My sense of the divide has lessened significantly over the years, but only because I keep diving into the abyss looking for light.
02/20/26
No comments:
Post a Comment