Memory

Today I had a memory that created unease. I walked with Alannah down the street, and we encountered a small dog. I brought up my adoptive mother’s dog Choco. I relayed that Donna more than once told me that she loved the dog more than she loved me, her son. It was her way of communicating disdain for a mentally ill and combative child. Not what she envisioned when adopting me.

I hadn’t considered the immensity of that sentiment. I hadn’t let myself feel hurt by it, at least consciously. I have built a shield that I imagined was impenetrable. How can I live with enthusiasm if I don’t let love in? How can I operate with clarity through the blur of shields.

Over the years, I started to feel I could let love in. At least in smaller ways. I learned communication, experiencing unease, and supporting yourself and others within the kinship of a band. People who travel and need to rely on each other to work towards a purpose they believe in. In that realm, I was safe. At least to the degree that I knew what safety was or could feel like.

How safe could I really be in trying to project an image of security and knowing? I’m unsure of my ability to self-reflect, especially in notions of responsibility and love. Am I seeing nuance, or am I scared of being on the wrong side of a fence? What do I owe people who don’t always treat others kindly? Do I give the compassion I expect?

I am loved less than a dog, I am standing in my living room. I am being yelled at, I can’t remember why. When your entire memory of a decade is being admonished and yelled at by your guardians, it’s hard to parse how you could be so evil. I can now see complete codependency and mental illness permeating every nook of my guardians lives. Everything was also exacerbated by my own burgeoning mental health crisis.

I don’t remember the last time I yelled with anything other than joy in my heart. I love celebratory feelings. I love camaraderie. But I also have immense discomfort with anger, and am not compassionate towards it as a valid emotion. Is it an overcorrection from a childhood that steeped itself in anger almost exclusively? Sometimes I feel lucky I made it out alive.