Bad storm gone

My girl Daisy's been wondering whaz up! Without totally airing everything, let's just say there's been a lot of hurt that I've both hurled and caught, mostly with my 3 sisters. Mom and Oh-Dad were brave enough to referee a sit-down yesterday. And I've got the emotional hang-over to prove it. But after two hours, things actually look a little brighter, feel a little safer, and appear as if we will move forward toward a better idea of what it means to be a family.

But family is a weird thing, I'm learning.

A mentor of mine has tried to explain that "family" is not a spiritual term. "Family" is a term that comes from the material world, and with the material comes all sorts of baggage with how a family should be. You know what I mean: the Norman Rockwell bullshit? the Brady's? the Ingall's? the Huxtable's? All cheery and happy with a 6th sense of always knowing what the other members need at the exact right time, forever on the same wavelength and completely "getting" the others. Fictitious crap, really.

What I'm seeing is that family, while not a spiritual term, definitely comes with opportunities. For me, it's THE opportunity to see just how little I've grown.

I have 38 years of old ideas and views about what family is "supposed" to be. What I experienced yesterday was a mixture of expectation and surprise. I have a deep hope that my family will always love me no matter what, and the fact that Mom, Oh-Dad, and us girls hung in there until the proverbial David Hasselhoff was singing on a tumbling-down wall, proved to me that they are willing to love me. That expectation was met.

What was surprising was how skewed my perception is. A lot of shitaki mushrooms hit the fan this summer and the pile grew from there. My recollection of events was completely different from what was shared by my sisters. My recollection of events doesn't even include some people who were there. And that frightens me. It scares me that my memory is that selective. It's spooky that what I heard was WAY different from what was said. (So I guess it's a good thing I went and got me a shrink and a psychologist last week.)

I know there's the old adage about an event: there's her version, there's my version, and there's the truth.

But what also came to light is just how careful I must be with this blog. When I started it, it was more of a private journal where I vented my religious anger and self-righteous crap. But it didn't make me feel any better. In fact, it felt like I'd swallowed the family hedge hog (poor Otis). I started taking personal pot shots at people close to me. It was usually tongue-in-cheek, joking kind of stuff, but there was an edge to it.

What I'm learning is that if I'm going to honor this penchant for writing, I must use it in a loving, positive way (thank God the election is over). What I am seeing is that when I get caught in negativity, it creates such a shit-storm in me that everything I touch turns to guano.

A few weeks ago I confessed to my doctor that I didn't want to drink, but was afraid I would (hence the additional head guys). Despite my years of recovery, my head was full of such fear and anger and worry and dread that it was manifesting itself in all sorts of harmful behavior. And that's some dangerous stuff. And I was reaping what I'd sowed.

So does this mean it's all daisies and lollipops? Any of you who know me even a tad know that I'm not capable of prolonging sickening, cavity-rich, dimple'ed BS. But I no longer look at the Litterbox as a dumping ground. It's more a platform for sharing that which is good, or changing, or happening. So, I guess I'm back -- a little deflated, a little-less angry, a lot more grateful, and delighted to report that the Magdalene heard my prayer for reconciliation . . . and she delivered.

I send you all so much love---

Namaste~