Your are your own show... and it is on now

Moved by the honesty of Emmauel Carrere’s writing, I want to find my voice, find my path to the story I must tell.

I find solace and sadness, a similarity I am uncomfortable with, yet recognize, in my mother saying she was still lost at 50, and was unable to find herself when her children were around. We were each complicated, and broken in our own way, and definitely with us all around, or even two of us at home the same time, there was too much white noise, too much vibration and chaotic energy bouncing around our home. My mother has soft boundaries, and rarely enforced her own space. People came and went on their terms and convenience, she never turned anyone away. It has made me have difficulties asserting my own space, my boundaries when it comes to others and their needs. But it is not only that I am silent in articulating my needs, I often am not aware what my needs are, nor that they are being compromised for the comfort and benefit of others.

It is a sad tale, to be sure, that my father died 19 days after I was born. But is it not perhaps less sad then if he died a year, or five years later? Each of us three children feel like we had it harder, primarily for our placement in the situation. My sister, the oldest, she was five and had clear memories of her time with my father. My brother was only three, and has no memories of his time overlapping with our dad, and also has the torment that our sister actually got to feel his love and embrace, and carry those visions with her to adult hood. He has none. I seem the saddest case, having only a few select photos of my father and me together, him holding me in his hospital bed, his face thin and gaunt, his body frail with his dreary hospital gown hanging over his body, tubes strung into his arms. What heartbreak he must have felt, holding me, knowing that my life would be difficult, to be sure. What secrets did he hold in his heart, about my mother’s immaturity, her being ill-equipped to be a single mother to three sad and broken children, or perhaps about my sister’s demanding and difficult personality? Did he suspect she had a personality disorder, did he know she would demand total and complete acceptance, that she would be unwaveringly obstinate in the face of reason or concern for others? Did he know Justin would be lost amongst the female-dominated household, and that we would all drift to difficult sources to find love, since there simply was not enough to go around?

He was a man of God, he believed in a creator and I imagine he prayed that I would have the strength and ability to take care of myself, to find a voice and find a way in the world. I always gave him the credit for my intelligence, my excelling in reading, then math, and being assigned to the gifted class created at my middle school. I never gave my mom credit then, nor before she died, for also being smart, and capable, and that she really was doing the best she knew how, in spite of being overwhelmed, and totally unprepared for the discipline that would be needed to run a tight household. Therefore, our upbringing was chaos and all over the place. I have no memories of assigned bedtimes, or daily routines of teethbrushing or baths. I’m sure it contributes to my disdain today of friends that keep impossible schedules of nap and eating and bedtimes for their kids. Though I longed for more regimen instilled into my fibers, I criticize those who impose too much.

Carrere says that there is a saying that happiness is best understood in retrospect. I do not want that to be my case, I want to know how truly happy I am now, how much my life is of my own choice and doing, and how much I am in control of my own motivation. I am both the conductor and the soloist of this performance, the behind-the-scenes production crew, the ushers, and the collective orchestra. I am the ticket-takers and the PR department. I am also the audience, which is the hardest part to remember. I am not waiting in rehearsal for the audience to show up. My show is ON, it is going on right now. For me, by me. If others want to come and watch, they are welcome, but it is my show, and it must go on!