My
blog post of the other day was, essentially, an attempt to be positive.
Stretchy, shiny, cheap plastic thoughts with no air filling them; not even as
lively as balloons. Limp assertions.
The
truth is, I am bitter about my life, a lot of the time. At least work
distracted me from this bitterness and threatening depression. Now, having
retired, I have to distract myself, and I’m not up for it. Nor am I up for all
the “creative projects” I thought I’d be rarin’ to be doing.
This
morning I was pondering what it “means” to be an older person who doesn’t have
children. Since my husband is spending a lot of time dealing with his elderly
father who is in “rehab” after a stroke, I can be glad that at least I won’t
be inflicting that kind of obligation on a son or daughter (only on said
husband or a couple of caring friends, or more likely, strangers).
It
also means that my family’s genes won’t have as much of a chance, or at least
my particular combination won’t. A total of five male offspring have been
produced by two of my five siblings, but no female offspring. It would have
been nice to provide my family with one female descendant. I had the
opportunity, back in 1979, but I wasn’t brave enough or stupidly optimistic
enough. And I didn’t think about my family’s “legacy” at the time. I was
selfish, scared, and heartbroken because my boyfriend didn’t want to proceed
with the project and had moved to another state. He was going through a
divorce, and I had just been through one. Sometimes life is not a fairytale.
My overall
estimation of myself has improved somewhat since then, because I have made
better choices. But still, what have I really done? Nothing very brave or
unusual at all! As a white woman from the suburbs of Massachusetts, I was, yes,
privileged, and even though I felt the effects of the “second-class citizenship”
that feminism fought against, I still got away with a lot. I worked hard, but
only when I felt like it. I took responsibility, but only for things that
seemed interesting to me. I looked on “love” as something I could “get” when I
needed it, with very little effort, simply because I was female and attractive.
It took me YEARS to learn that sex and love were not the same thing. I was a
naive idiot with intellectual and artistic pretensions. I didn’t know how to
really LOVE anyone. I knew who pleased me and gave me attention, and I
experienced what I thought was “suffering” when those people left. And of
course I tried to make everyone “like” me, if not “admire” me. I fooled a lot
of people into thinking I was a “good” person. I really wasn’t even a person. I
still don’t know if I am.
I’ve
been re-reading some letters from the 1960s, sent to me by friends. All of us
were doing a lot of soul-searching in those days, yet it was so solipsistic. We
were exploring our own moods, our own feelings. We were constantly disappointed
in other people because they didn’t share our values, opinions, or energy
level. We were prematurely disillusioned without even experiencing much of the
world outside ourselves or our “crowd.” Sure, some of us traveled, but the
efforts were superficial, considering all the drug-assisted writing and
poetry-making and music-listening that seemed to fill each day. We were having
an effect only on ourselves as individuals. We often thought the world owed us
a living for being sensitive and creative and easily wounded. I admit it!
I
could have read more books. I could have NOT dropped out of history class in
high school and somehow gotten away with it. After my year of being away from
high school, I returned to a groovy, “special” school that overlooked the gaps
in my previous curriculum and eased me on to graduation with courses like
“Journal Writing,” and “Photography.” I deserve to be the subject of a parody,
only it’s a bit late. Maybe I can do it myself, if I can sum up the motivation
(which I probably can’t).
Yes,
I indulge in a vicious assessment of myself sometimes, having practiced
attitudes taught me by my mother, the stern Catholic authority figure of my
childhood. But since I “lost” my religion when I was 15, I can’t seek help from
the saints. Often, I don’t even recognize that I’m down, or might need some
fun, or might need to talk to a friend. I just stay at home. I make clever
remarks on Facebook. I try to remain kind, or at least civil, toward my
husband. He’s very important to me. I would say that I love him as much as I
can love anyone, and also that I need him. I have needed him ever since we met
and I saw what a genuinely kind person he is. I benefit from that kindness. I
have survived because of it, I suppose. We have been together more than 30
years. My own father used to claim that marriage was simply an economic
arrangement; I don’t know what philosopher he’d been reading at the time. But
it’s more like a psychological arrangement for me!
So,
in these days of racist violence and religious wars and poisoned politics, I am
trying to become more aware, and to see if there is anything I can do to
“help.” But usually, on any given day, I have only enough psychological energy
to do something like give a ride to a friend whose car is in the shop. I’ve
become more introverted; I’m not into neighborhood watches or peace rallies. I
suppose I should be—I keep beating myself over the head for not doing things
like that, because I no longer have the excuse of having to go to work. I exercise, but only because I don’t want to die before my time. I
have always treasured “the life of the mind,” but I am distracted by the
constant guilt of not doing enough for others. It is hard to find peace. So
there, previous blog post!
Photo credit: Edith and Little Bear play with a toy camera and their teddy bears.
Photo by Dare Wright: Photo from "The Secret Life of The Lonely Doll:
The Search for Dare Wright" by Jean Nathan.
