My parents

I was one of those children who vowed to never be like my parents. I grew up rebellious and pig headed and I hated anyone telling me what to do. In fact, that's one characteristic that has stayed with me all my life, for better or for worse. I don't like being told what to do. It sounds childish, I know, but I have a hell of a stubborn Irish streak in me.

I like to decide things for myself, make my own choices and follow up on things only if I feel they are right. I like to follow my gut instinct, without anyone saying "You should do this" or "you should do that." I like to think for myself.

But back to my parents. My parents have always been a bittersweet spot in my life. They are simple in so many ways, and yet complex in so many others. They can be unsociable and stubborn, and they can easily offend others and think nothing of it. Yet there have been moments of great generosity and compassion in times of stress.

My father is a great man. I've always thought that about him. He has a wonderful heart and a good sense of humor. He's funny and loving and hardworking and I used to like to listen to him sing. He was very handsome in his day, and was a favorite dance partner of the ladies. He was very popular. It's been a long time since I've heard him laugh. And he has always loved my mother.

My mother is the polar opposite. She can be cold as ice, and as insensitive to others' feelings as I've ever seen. She spews out intolerance and indifference, and I believe her parents may never have told her she was loved. She has never had a positive word for anything I've ever attemped, but the criticism always flowed. Yet, she has held me on the rare occasion when the world was too much for me, and tried her best to comfort me. As much as she could anyway.

Things have gotten better for us since the day I had that talk with her, the one where I told her that when I was growing up, I'd felt I was nothing more than an inconvenience to her. Oh, and that I never went to church anymore. I thought she'd have a coronary right there.

My parents live in fear. They fear death, they fear life, and more than anything, they fear going to Hell. They keep the house dark and the windows shut tight in fear of someone breaking in.

They are afraid to live...to appreciate this life they were given, this gift. And that one fact, above all others, I believe, is what made me who I am today - a person who will not be afraid to live.

I go up to visit them fairly often. It used to be less, but since my mother was diagnosed with cancer, I go as much as possible. But from the time before I leave my own house to the moment I leave theirs, I am wound up like a spring. The thought of going into their house, into that dark, airless cave they live in, where depression sits out in the open like a permanent guest, makes me want to run screaming in another direction.

I try to encourage them to open a window and let some air in, or turn on a light instead of sitting in darkness. But they refuse. They continue to wallow in misery and then complain about how unhappy they are. And then they go back to bed. I believe eighty percent of their lives are spend in bed. Seperate beds. I know this is an obvious sign of clinical depression.

They are unhappy people, who refuse to do anything to change it. And I refuse to become that way. There is so much beauty and laughter and joy in the world. I will not waste it in the dark.

OK, rant over. lol