The Myth of Family

Dad & friends in their haphazard London taxi pretending to drive about in Halifax during the war.
Mom at Basic Training in Cornwallis Ontario

These are the people who became my parents. I have thought long and hard about both of them. I probably spend more time looking at me, but since they’re my mirrors and my source of so many habits that I need to know them, at least within the context of what I came out of our relationships with.

Scars, mostly.


Indeed, scars that I’m working over and getting the fascia to loosen up a bit, act a bit more like my body is undamaged. It’s all complicated when you’re not “normal.” Normals will argue with you “Well, I’ve had thoughts/done deeds that are not that much different from your examples of your behaviour.” Except they hadn’t been examples of behaviour but examples of habitual predilections, habitual perceptions, and habitual actions (or reactions).

That all said, if you read it, means I’ve had lots of bizarre questions about my parent, about whom I know little or no personal history. I have some building blocks: one had a business man father, the other was raised by a mortician; both enjoyed riotous youths but neither got into serious trouble; they are both the youngest child in their family of origin (oh, that lets so many cats out of the bag, except, it’s just a phrase I’ve picked up and found useful); one had serious mental illness, the other was clueless; one was a vicious predator, the other was clueless; both worked hard, but for very different reasons.

I recently decided to find something I could connect with in one parent, a difficult parent. I’d already felt that I’d come to a place of acceptance and love. But, recent events have revealed the truth about just how tied up I am in the utterly terrifying place my childhood was.

Time to untie another string, loosen another bow, and unwrap the package another layer.