Monday, February 18, 2013

From there to here

When I was little, the only people I remember having around were my mother's eccentric, foreign friends coming from every last corner of Europe. I think it had a lot to do with my intellectual development because I was forced to talk to and carry on conversations with these older people before I ever even a had a close friend my age. By then, meeting a kid who wanted nothing more than to talk about cartoons and play house was boring to me compared to the cool lady from Switzerland with the crazy stories and foreign toys who came to visit from time to time. It's no wonder that I've spent most of my life feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. I feel like I'm not very relateable to most people my age. I thought it would go away the older I got but I've found that it's something that's followed me. I'm such a lucky bitch.

I feel like that came off far more pompous than I intended. I don't mean to make it sound like I had a superior outlook on the world than everyone else, but more so a crippling one. I was worried about finances before most kids were even aware of how much money controls everything in this world. Has it made me more responsible? No. If anything, all the strides I made to be a responsible, self-reliant person when I was young have seemed to vaporized when you see the women that child grew to be. I know nothing of the direction I'm going. All I know for certain now are the same things I knew all along: My mother is older than most and probably won't be with me much longer. I don't want children. I'm 98% sure that not even marriage is something that interests me. I just want to run. I have this warped, teenage outlook on there being some kind of romanticism attached to the idea of getting the hell away from everyone without any explanation or reasoning. Just to simply take off and to keep on doing that forever. I'd like to think that this too shall pass, but I'm also not holding my breath. I was bound to have a fragment of craziness from my mother inside of me somewhere. I think that whole "running away" bit is it.

I used to love the way my mom told me about her life before me. The places she lived, the boyfriends (though, not many) she had, and even her previous marriage. She talked about these people she loved like she had no attachment to them whatsoever. I found that quality admirable somehow and wished I could be the same. For me, I think I was always too sensitive and caring for all the wrong assholes in my life, which in turn made me feel weak for letting them effect me so much. So, yeah, naturally the thought of not caring seemed like a relief that I'd never be strong enough to experience, myself. It's only now that I'm older and I listen to all the stories again that I realize just how fucked it all really is. Every serious, loving relationship my mother has ever had, she has run away from. She ran away from my grandma knowing fully well that once she left Communist-occupied Czechoslovakia, she'd never be able to return. She left men she'd been in serious relationships with without an explanation. She left what was supposed to be her first husband at the alter. She left her actual first husband, whom til this day I can say is the only man she ever really loved, with just a suitcase in hand. The next week she was on a plane to America. She never looked back. She's kind of awful in that sense. It breaks my heart to think of ever breaking someone else's heart like that.

And that's how I know I'm not a complete cunt.


1 comment:

  1. It sucks incessantly caring so much, sometimes. I hear ya, sista!