unraveling the past

Before moving any further forward, let me take a couple of steps back. Because life certainly didn’t start following adolescence, even though it feels that way sometimes.

Like I said, I had a nice family and a good upbringing. My dad worked hard to provide for his family, eager to give us everything his childhood, which bordered on poverty, couldn’t. He worked in computer sales, climbed the ladder, built a home in the suburbs in 1974, acquired a cobalt blue Volvo station wagon in 1980 and eventually opened his own computer business.

My mom stayed home, walked us to the bus stop before school, greeted us on our return, made us snacks and played games with us. She adored and loved my sisters and I; she was (and is) the quintessential caretaker: Loving, funny, sweet and full of energy.

We ran around the neighborhood, we rode bikes, we built forts and we served pink lemonade at sidewalk lemonade stands. We took vacations to the beach, to the desert, even to Hawaii. We did our homework, did our chores and did our Catholic duties (mass on Sunday morning, Catholic school on Wednesday night). We were a family of five. We grew up together in the suburbs. And we had everything we needed, and often more.

And like any family, we had our issues. Mom and dad argued regularly. Dad worked too much and was, at times, unintentionally emotionally detached. Mom was, at times, depressed and unintentionally needed us too much. Dad became angry; mom painted anger as unacceptable. Dad withdrew; mom gave guilt trips and silent treatment. We hid and pretended nothing was wrong.

And things weren’t all that wrong – just enough to lead my sisters and I into habitual guilt, worry, insecurity and, later, the classic consequences of such. Nothing tragic. Nothing monumental. Just regular life, our regular average life that I can’t help contemplating, curious to know about the sequence of events and decisions that shape the person one becomes – that shape the person I’ve become.

Worry and fear were sewn into our beings, as if they were necessary to our own survival. We worry about what others think, worry about what we think, worry about what we’re doing and worry about what we’re going to do – it seems to never end. And with such incessant worry comes incessant guilt. If you can’t stop questioning and second-guessing what you do, you can never reach a place of approval or satisfaction, from yourself or anyone else.

I believe the inconsistencies and blurred lines in my life—never feeling quite sure of my behaviors, my decisions and myself—keeps the wheels of fear and worry and guilt spinning and nagging. It’s a cycle I fell into so long ago it’s melted into my every move, Most days, I try to undo it.