My Parents Suck

I had an amazing realization this week: my parents suck.

Now, before anyone goes jumping to conclusions, allow me to explain myself. My family pretty much fell apart back in 1993. In the space of less than three months my life was turned upside down. We moved, and by 'moved' I mean went on vacation and never went home. My step-dad left my mom. My dad disowned me. My mom went back to work and school. We had negative money, and my brother's health was worse than it had and has ever been.

It was a hard time for everyone. I came out the other end a complete mess. I was traumatized in the most literal sense. Depressed, scared to death, abandoned, believing it was my fault. As a child of eleven years old, I really didn't have the skills to cope with what happened.

I've been in therapy for a while now, sorting things out, learning coping skills, healing. This last week I had a breakthrough. Steve pointed out that as far as myself is concerned, there is a disconnect between my head any my heart. I have perfectly fine reasoning capabilities and critical thinking skills. However, I continue to believe negative things about myself and what happened to me that just aren't true. My head isn't getting through to my heart.

To help remedy this problem Steve and I talked through past events and he helped me see, logically, that I really didn't have anything to do with the crap that went on. It effected me, but I didn't cause it nor could I solve it. I saw over and over again how it really was unfair that my parents (both of them in different ways) put me in difficult situations and asked me to make decisions that no child should make. It was just bad parenting. They weren't fulfilling their roles as parents or accepting responsibility for their own choices. (I understand that this is somewhat vague, but I'm not going to go into specifics. I am posting this on the internet, after all.)

After going through several events, Steve asked me what I was thinking. I said, "my parents suck!" This was a breakthrough for me. I had spent so much time feeling guilty about decisions I made that it never occurred to me that I never should have been making those decisions in the first place. How nice to have that cleared up! I mean, before I live with it for fourteen years and it seriously effects my life and personality . . . oh wait! I guess I'm a little late for that.

Now, don't get me wrong. My parents are both good, faithful, kind, generous people. I have a good relationship with them both now, or as good as could be expected considering what we've put each other through. That said, they dropped the ball big time and I paid for it.

The Rock-Paper-Scissors Tournament of Chamions

Last time I was in Seattle, about a month ago, I met up with some old friends for lunch. Thai. Yum. I don't remember exactly what I had except that it was a variety of curry with tofu and that it was delicious. We had a good chat over lunch--Wendel, Ashley, that elephant we were refusing to acknowledge, and me. It was quite cozy, really. The check arrived. We had to decide who would pay. Wendel suggested we rock-paper-scissors for it. I consented and thus began the Rock-Paper-Scissors Tournament of Champions. . . .

Wendel provided the pre-game entertainment. He described some version of the game introduced to him by a co-worker: bear, hunter, something else. I don't remember exactly except that it was a full body activity. The narration and imagined visuals were highly entertaining.

After we had loosened up and decided on the rules--best two out of three, count to three then shoot--serious play could begin. The players wind up and make eye contact. Go. Fists pound palms. One, two, three/scissors. Foul on the play. The round will have to be re-played; Becca made a false start.

Players resume positions. One, two, three/rock. Foul! Becca jumped the gun again. Changing tournament rules is discussed. One, two, go on three? No, Becca is sure she can handle the intensity of tournament play and is willing to step up to the challenge of counting to three before going.

Resume positions. One, two three, rock/rock.

Again. One, two, three, paper/rock. Wendel is up by one.

One, two, threeeeeee. Foul on the play. Wendel has suffered an equipment failure; his fist doesn't leave his palm after three. Some hearty laughs and a few "this is awesome"s take care of the problem.

One, two, three, rock/scissors. The score is tied.

One, two, three, bear/bear. Just kidding, wrong game, it was two papers.

Everyone is on pins and needles (including the other people in the restaurant, although they were most likely looking forward to the end of the game more than the outcome). Sweat beading on brows and upper lips, the players settle in for what could be the last round. Will they tie again? Will Becca fall back into her early game mistakes? The players lock eyes, lean forward in their chairs, and give the final nod. One, two, three, scissors/paper.

Wendel wins the Rock-Paper-Scissors Tournament of Champions! His card is whisked away and he signs the bill with a flourish over glasses of celebratory ice water.

Until next time, SWPS. I'll be sharpening my skills and ready for the rematch.