I’m Normal Within My Deviance

How can the word ‘Normal’ evoke both pride and disappointment at the same time?  I’ve always wanted to be normal.  That my feelings, or lack there of, were normal.  That my life isn’t so way out of proportion as the rest of the world.  And still, I reveled in the idea that I wasn’t normal.  That my uniqueness gave me insight, gave me a position as a writer to have a better or different or novel way of looking at life that would be of value to my reader.  But I’m normal in my reactions or someone that has been raised by a narcissist (Mom) and the favored of one parent (Papa).  C was liked best by my Mom and I was liked best by my Dad, which left S to have to fend for herself a lot of the time being the quintessential middle child.  Totally not fair to her.

Lack of connection, lack of intimacy, lack of confidence are all hallmarks of the child of a narcissist. And as much as I don’t want to blame anyone, especially my  Mom in this journey, at this time, blame is the only oar in the boat.  Blame yes, fault no.  I don’t believe that Mom has any control over her self-projecting behavior any more than her mother and her mother’s mother before her.  The clay from which we are founded is colored by all the people before us, what we mold urselves into is completely our choice.  I have chosen to no longer be the lump that pleases my family, I want to be a classical-Renaissance-modern piece of work that inspires and inhabits the space she has been allotted in this life.  The purpose of therapy is to give me the tools to subtract the clay that has blocked the best form from emerging from the whole.  So, I’m normal.  It’s a good foundation to start my sculpting from.

The funny thing is, I’ve known this.  I’ve been told this by dear friends, that considering the family dynamics I’m normal, even better than because I’m aware of it.  But hearing it from someone who has studied and worked with other ‘Normal’s seems to make it that much more real, and solid.  Yea, we’re off on a good start.

Tomorrow Is Always A Day Away

Little Orphan Annie sings that song in the play. The thing of it is, it’s always a day away. It’s never the now. I have so many grand plans for the ever elusive tomorrow that I give myself on a pass for today. I’ll get up earlier tomorrow. I’ll get my room straightened out tomorrow. I’ll find a job tomorrow. I’ll train Sammy how to poop on command tomorrow. I’ll read a book tomorrow. I’ll get my laundry done tomorrow. I’ll shower tomorrow. I’ll take care of my blood sugar tomorrow. I’ll be happy tomorrow. I’ll be better tomorrow. I won’t be tomorrow. Tomorrow exists in that fleeting nanosecond between tick and tock just as the first chime ring in the new day. Then it’s today, it’s now, it’s never. But, there’s always tomorrow.

Safe in Bed

I am blessed to have a Victorian bed.  It is made from church pews for both head and foot boards.  It stands higher than the norm because the Victorians weren’t fond of sleeping with the household vermin so the cast iron bedrails were placed well above rat reach.  On top of that height I have a standard box spring and matrices so I’m even higher than the average bed is meant to be.  And I love it.  It’s my own private island.  These days it has been my retreat, my solace, my sanctuary  from the world.  Some day I’m going to have to find the will, the energy, the medication to leave it behind and go forward into the world around me and make a mark or two.  But for now, I know I’m safe in bed.