“So beautiful and yet, what is too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget.”
Barbra Streisand is right. She sings the definition of nostalgia — a glossy overview of the truth.
Today, I was alone in Dad’s apartment. Mom’s and Dad’s apartment. My siblings’ and my home. 55 years of life and memories and stuff.
Alone. With the walls that talk.
While I unscrewed the extra shelves in the closets and bathrooms, in preparation for the walls to be skim-coated and painted, I was bombarded by memories — some good, some great, and other not-so-much.
Being gay before Mom and Dad accepted me.
Other painful times, just because parents and children don’t always (or often) get along.
I think the physical activity of cleaning made it easier to process the memories.
And, I was afraid of some of them, because they do not fit the vision of perfect parents of my blogs — an assault on my revisionist memories. My “truth” of later years.
And with all of it,
the teenage “I hate you, FOREVER” moments and
the moments of abject despair as Mom and (to a lesser extent) Dad seemingly turned their backs on me because I was gay,
it all turned out ok. (We all figured it out. They forgave me for being gay and I forgave them for needing to forgive me.)
Our parents loved us. And we loved them. And no one was perfect. And we were safe in our homes and knew that every resource would be available for us.
Why am I nostalgic? Because through the shit times, Mom and Dad were present and connected (not always in the way we wanted). But, when we needed them, they were there.
I often wonder if I will measure up to their commitment when tested.
So, I was bombarded by memories of shouting, anger, etc. today, and still I think I am incredibly lucky.
So, to Mom and Dad, on Mother’s Day — thank you both for nurturing me and standing by me (almost always), whether or not you agreed or approved.
I love you.