Blame It All on My Roots

About five years ago, I started to take stock of what energized me and what drained me. To do this, I had to learn to be present in my interactions with others. To take stock of how I was feeling at the conclusion of those interactions. Was my cup full or was my cup empty? Did the interaction energize me or did it deplete me? Once I got in touch with how I was feeling, I could start to make changes in my life.

Change is never easy. In fact, I think change is quite painful. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus of Ephesus is credited with saying, "The only constant in life is change". I used to hate that phrase. Now, I accept it for what it is, the truth.

The first lesson I learned was that I do not feel comfortable taking on the burden of managing other people's problems. I have recognized that, from the time I was a little girl, I had too many responsibilities placed on my young, fragile shoulders.

I grew up in a family of eight; I was the eldest daughter of six children, born to my young parents. I had a brother, 11 months older, my Irish Twin, a sister who was 20 months younger than I, a brother who was two years below her, a sister two years behind him, and yet another sister, eight years my Junior. Did you keep up with that? My mother had six children before the age of 30; she was remarkable. She was a Superwoman. A woman I aspired to be one day, minus the six children. Catholic Family Planning method is what this is referred to as, in case you were wondering. No preventative measures, you bear as many children as God blesses you with.

As you can imagine, growing up in a household of eight was constant chaos. You never had any time alone, you could never go anywhere alone, and you inherited several, constant companions. Being the oldest female, I believe I naturally took on a care-giving role for my younger siblings. My mother also likes to remind me that I was telling people I wanted to be a “nurse like my Grandpa,” starting at age three. I am now a nurse.

My paternal Grandfather was the only general surgeon in the small town I grew up in. He was a beacon of light in my life. My hero, the male figure I looked up to in life, my lighthouse. My Grandmother and his place of dwelling was my safe place, my place of refuge; the only place, I recall, where I could retreat to be alone. The place where I could escape the mayhem of my home life and all the responsibilities that were weighing me down. The place where I could breathe without constriction in my chest.

That time away from home was sacred and precious to me. I became engrossed in my aunts’ Nancy Drew books and could escape my reality for hours on end. Joining Nancy on her quest to solve the current mystery was euphoric for me. My first hit of Dopamine before I understood what that was. When I finished one book, I opened the next, in the series, immediately. I never wanted that feeling to end. The feeling of being safe, secure, and loved. Those three things, and that feeling, have been what I have been searching for my entire life. Their home became my sanctuary, my home away from home.

My Grandmother would always be the one to drop me off at home, after a night or two away. She was a 100% Irish, four foot 11, spicy, little ball of energy, who drove a beige Escort like she was racing Mario Andretti. She put pedal to the metal speeding around our small town. They lived about 15 blocks away from my house, so I could walk there as I got older-my first taste of freedom. I recall being frightened while riding with her, at times. She was a speed demon, on city streets. She would come right up on a stop sign, then slam on her brakes, only to roll through the four-way. I would fly forward from the back seat because no one wore seat-belts in those days. If another driver met us at the four-way stop, she would speed right through, even if they got there first, then make an insolent hand gesture, or yell, when they honked at her. She did not care one bit. What she was doing, where she was going, was more important. She was fierce; a force to be reckoned with. I adored her.

Before being diagnosed with anxiety as an adult, I remember feeling worried when my weekend stay was coming to an end. I recall being blue when Sunday would arrive. Waking up in the peaceful, quiet, spare bedroom, I recall wanting to stay forever, and never go home. This was not for lack of love for my family, but for the dread of returning to a place where the environment was unpredictable and felt unsafe.

See, my father suffered from alcoholism, a debilitating, destructive and progressive disease-genetic in predisposition. A personality change occurred when he consumed alcohol and the end result was always a coin toss. He could return home happy and gregarious, after winning a hockey or softball game or he could return home a sore loser; angry and loud and wake up the household with the slamming of cupboards or shouting at my mother or older brother. This unpredictability set me up for a lifetime full of anxiety. Of never being comfortable with the status quo because I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

How I survived was by attempting to control my home environment. At a very early age, I would do everything within my power to offset his terrifying outbursts. I hated feeling unsafe. I hated chaos. I hated shouting, and I definitely hated alcohol.

What this looked like, was my eight year old self, cleaning the house, doing the dishes, helping with the family laundry, braiding my sisters’ hair, accompanying them on our one-block walk to elementary school. I became a soldier, a perfect daughter. I have been trying to shed this skin ever since. After all, there is no such thing as a perfect daughter, is there? We are human. We are imperfect. We are exactly as God made us. I now call myself A Child of God. And this skin fits me like a glove.