I'm always trying to figure out exactly who I am. I crave the knowledge that many people have of who their families are, and why they act the ways that they do. I was given very little sense of self, growing up, aside from being told that I was worthless, so I'm constantly on the lookout for who I am based on where I came from.
I've shared it before, but I'll share it again. My mother left my dad when I was only three years old. I always knew that it wasn't his decision, and growing up with my insane mother only confirmed it. Despite his best efforts, she would not allow him to see me after that, and when I was eight, she forced his hand to allow my abusive stepfather to adopt me. It wasn't until I was fourteen years old that she set up a visit between us, and I was allowed to get to know him for a short week.
It was the happiest week of my childhood. I'm not sure many people can pinpoint something like that, but coming from the abuse and dysfunction of my "home", living with kindness, love and a real family was all I ever wanted. I really did live a Cinderella kind of life, and to this day, I can't watch any version of that story without weeping, because, in all honesty, it strikes way too close to home.
My dad was remarried at that point and had two children, Brent (9) and Meg (3). Looking back on it, the whole family was so good about just letting me step right into their lives. There was no judgement, no hesitation, no manipulation. And upon returning to my mother's house, I told her that I no longer wanted to live with her, but I wanted to live with them.
In true fashion, she quit talking to me for almost three weeks. It was always her play: deprive me of emotional support and love until my stepfather forced me to approach her, apologizing for anything and everything and admitting that I was a worthless creature. She would then begin talking to me again...at least until I did another thing wrong. This time, however, I didn't have to go crawling back to her, because my dad was killed in a glider accident. She had to open her mouth and talk to me to tell me that he was dead.
I'm reminded of the story of Tantalus from greek mythology. He was punished by the gods for his wrongdoings by being placed in a pool of water underneath a fruit tree with low hanging branches. Any time he reached for the fruit, the branches would lift it just out of his reach, and anytime he stooped to drink from the pool, the water would recede.
I was so close to happiness--it was within my reach--but I could never get it. It was a very hard childhood, to say the least.
After my father died, his mother, Margaret Elinor Parsons Apgar, sent me a box in the mail. It was
full of letters he had written to her as a cadet at the Air Force Academy (1961-1965), and throughout his marriage to my mother. Probably six inches of letters. I must admit that when I received them twenty years ago, I was in shock. I had about seven days of memories of him, and here were years of his thoughts, recorded on paper. The first time through those letters left me not knowing what to think. There was so much to process. Five years ago, I read them through again, and I was devastated for weeks. They brought up all kinds of thoughts about what my life could have been, had he been a part of it.
Then, about three years ago, I decided to "find" my siblings on Facebook. Thankfully, Meg has a large presence on social media, and it didn't take long to find her. Not having any close family, I wasn't even sure that I wanted to make that connection. However, once I did, the floodgates opened.
Meg's experience was naturally different from mine. She has no memories of him. However, her second family wasn't all that great either, so she (and her brother especially) do share some of the feelings of abandonment that come from the death of a parent.
She has been a huge blessing in my life. She is the queen of extroverts, so there is never an awkward moment, and I never have to question exactly what she's thinking or feeling. I obviously like being around extroverts, seeing as I'm married to the king ;-)
This past week, I headed down to North Carolina to visit her, and I decided to bring my dad's letters. While I'm sure that her mother is willing to free talk about him, there's something special in reading the actual words written by someone. We spent several hours one evening, working our way through them. I was worried that I would once again be an emotional mess, but you know, having someone there who shares an experience with me, only gave me strength as we read them.
And that, folks, was a completely new feeling for me. Gaining strength from extended family that doesn't include the family I have created myself? Not having to be the adult in the relationship? Oh my goodness, what freedom.
And this time through, I learned some things about myself.
I have kept a record of my life throughout my entire life. It's not something that I ever feel like I need to do, as some kind of spiritual responsibility. Instead, I can hardly keep from pouring my thoughts onto paper.
And so did my dad. He wrote all the time. And I hate to think of what my life would be without his letters. I would know almost nothing about him.
I don't think he ever suspected that he would die an early death. Do any of us? And yet, if he'd waited to record his history, or if he hadn't written at all, I would have nothing. And with that, I like the idea that when I'm gone, my family (especially those who have never met me) will have a chance to know me. They will be able to read through my journals and blog posts and get a sense of whom they come from. I like that idea. Of course, I've begged my children to do the same, but with the exception of Glo, there won't be much written by the rest of them, and that makes me sad.
Too, my dad was a tech geek. Before real technology had blossomed into what it is today, he owned a video camera. Not an audio and video camera, but a video camera, and he used it. Meg showed me a collection of videos he had taken throughout the years. Many of them are air shows (naturally, him being a pilot in the Air Force), but there are some of him, and some of us together. In fact, one of the most startling videos was of a young, handsome cadet, playing frisbee somewhere around Colorado Springs with a young, attractive coed...who just happened to be my mom. While seeing my mom with him makes me yell at the screen "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, DAD!", or "GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!", I can't help but notice so many similarities between how he moves his body and my own son, Mark. In fact, John was only watching for a few seconds before he commented on the same thing. There are so many similarities between the two. Crazy.
Another thing I learned this time? My dad loved his family. Every break he had, every holiday, every time off, he was spending time with his family. In fact, his brothers are always in the films, and he ended up moving to Ann Arbor (and the University of Michigan) because his brother, Peter, was a student there.
Sometimes I think I'm crazy, always bringing my kids home and always visiting them. However, it runs in the blood. He rarely mentions a roommate, or a friend in his letters, but he can't help talking about his brothers and their families.
And when you think about it, all of his letters were written to his mom.
So next time I sheepishly admit that my boys call me almost every day, maybe I won't be quite so embarrassed by it. Even though I didn't see that example in my mother (who severed any and all ties with the little family she had), it's part of who I am.
And when I think about it, being like my dad wouldn't be such a bad thing.
I've shared it before, but I'll share it again. My mother left my dad when I was only three years old. I always knew that it wasn't his decision, and growing up with my insane mother only confirmed it. Despite his best efforts, she would not allow him to see me after that, and when I was eight, she forced his hand to allow my abusive stepfather to adopt me. It wasn't until I was fourteen years old that she set up a visit between us, and I was allowed to get to know him for a short week.
It was the happiest week of my childhood. I'm not sure many people can pinpoint something like that, but coming from the abuse and dysfunction of my "home", living with kindness, love and a real family was all I ever wanted. I really did live a Cinderella kind of life, and to this day, I can't watch any version of that story without weeping, because, in all honesty, it strikes way too close to home.
My dad was remarried at that point and had two children, Brent (9) and Meg (3). Looking back on it, the whole family was so good about just letting me step right into their lives. There was no judgement, no hesitation, no manipulation. And upon returning to my mother's house, I told her that I no longer wanted to live with her, but I wanted to live with them.
In true fashion, she quit talking to me for almost three weeks. It was always her play: deprive me of emotional support and love until my stepfather forced me to approach her, apologizing for anything and everything and admitting that I was a worthless creature. She would then begin talking to me again...at least until I did another thing wrong. This time, however, I didn't have to go crawling back to her, because my dad was killed in a glider accident. She had to open her mouth and talk to me to tell me that he was dead.
I'm reminded of the story of Tantalus from greek mythology. He was punished by the gods for his wrongdoings by being placed in a pool of water underneath a fruit tree with low hanging branches. Any time he reached for the fruit, the branches would lift it just out of his reach, and anytime he stooped to drink from the pool, the water would recede.
I was so close to happiness--it was within my reach--but I could never get it. It was a very hard childhood, to say the least.
After my father died, his mother, Margaret Elinor Parsons Apgar, sent me a box in the mail. It wasfull of letters he had written to her as a cadet at the Air Force Academy (1961-1965), and throughout his marriage to my mother. Probably six inches of letters. I must admit that when I received them twenty years ago, I was in shock. I had about seven days of memories of him, and here were years of his thoughts, recorded on paper. The first time through those letters left me not knowing what to think. There was so much to process. Five years ago, I read them through again, and I was devastated for weeks. They brought up all kinds of thoughts about what my life could have been, had he been a part of it.
Then, about three years ago, I decided to "find" my siblings on Facebook. Thankfully, Meg has a large presence on social media, and it didn't take long to find her. Not having any close family, I wasn't even sure that I wanted to make that connection. However, once I did, the floodgates opened.
Meg's experience was naturally different from mine. She has no memories of him. However, her second family wasn't all that great either, so she (and her brother especially) do share some of the feelings of abandonment that come from the death of a parent.
She has been a huge blessing in my life. She is the queen of extroverts, so there is never an awkward moment, and I never have to question exactly what she's thinking or feeling. I obviously like being around extroverts, seeing as I'm married to the king ;-)
This past week, I headed down to North Carolina to visit her, and I decided to bring my dad's letters. While I'm sure that her mother is willing to free talk about him, there's something special in reading the actual words written by someone. We spent several hours one evening, working our way through them. I was worried that I would once again be an emotional mess, but you know, having someone there who shares an experience with me, only gave me strength as we read them.
And that, folks, was a completely new feeling for me. Gaining strength from extended family that doesn't include the family I have created myself? Not having to be the adult in the relationship? Oh my goodness, what freedom.
And this time through, I learned some things about myself.
I have kept a record of my life throughout my entire life. It's not something that I ever feel like I need to do, as some kind of spiritual responsibility. Instead, I can hardly keep from pouring my thoughts onto paper.
And so did my dad. He wrote all the time. And I hate to think of what my life would be without his letters. I would know almost nothing about him.
I don't think he ever suspected that he would die an early death. Do any of us? And yet, if he'd waited to record his history, or if he hadn't written at all, I would have nothing. And with that, I like the idea that when I'm gone, my family (especially those who have never met me) will have a chance to know me. They will be able to read through my journals and blog posts and get a sense of whom they come from. I like that idea. Of course, I've begged my children to do the same, but with the exception of Glo, there won't be much written by the rest of them, and that makes me sad.
Too, my dad was a tech geek. Before real technology had blossomed into what it is today, he owned a video camera. Not an audio and video camera, but a video camera, and he used it. Meg showed me a collection of videos he had taken throughout the years. Many of them are air shows (naturally, him being a pilot in the Air Force), but there are some of him, and some of us together. In fact, one of the most startling videos was of a young, handsome cadet, playing frisbee somewhere around Colorado Springs with a young, attractive coed...who just happened to be my mom. While seeing my mom with him makes me yell at the screen "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, DAD!", or "GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!", I can't help but notice so many similarities between how he moves his body and my own son, Mark. In fact, John was only watching for a few seconds before he commented on the same thing. There are so many similarities between the two. Crazy.
Another thing I learned this time? My dad loved his family. Every break he had, every holiday, every time off, he was spending time with his family. In fact, his brothers are always in the films, and he ended up moving to Ann Arbor (and the University of Michigan) because his brother, Peter, was a student there.
Sometimes I think I'm crazy, always bringing my kids home and always visiting them. However, it runs in the blood. He rarely mentions a roommate, or a friend in his letters, but he can't help talking about his brothers and their families.
And when you think about it, all of his letters were written to his mom.
So next time I sheepishly admit that my boys call me almost every day, maybe I won't be quite so embarrassed by it. Even though I didn't see that example in my mother (who severed any and all ties with the little family she had), it's part of who I am.
And when I think about it, being like my dad wouldn't be such a bad thing.
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