Dear Diary,
I’ve been reading this book — or, rather just am beginning too. There is a lot of sorrow that comes with pulling a parent off the pedestal. This longing, stabbing loss occurs when an adult finds out Santa Claus isn’t real any longer. It’s relaxing into the idea that heaven and hell are personal projections — and god is a man made concept.
If the Bible isn’t the word of god; how I raise my children is completely different. The entire concept of reality shift. The conversation I once had with the divine makes me feel insane.
What is a parent to do?
Raising children doesn’t come with an instruction book; however, my parent pretended the Bible was the end all be all. And when it read, “spank the child” my parents nodded their heads. Who were they to question a doctrine as ancient as their dead ancestors?
I asked a lot of questions,
I still do;
And I am reflecting on why —
I do what I do.
Perhaps, I saw fault in my mother and fathers logic. Their consequences were disconnected; I got put in time out till I was sixteen, except they called it “go to your room.”
They told me I was disrespectful as if they respected me. As a child, I learned words contextually. The interesting part about graduate school is that it forced me to break down words into their basic components. I began looking up Latin root words for medial words and found that my understanding of the English language was broken.
I felt like going back to the fundamentals helped me define words such as: accountability, responsibility, and respect. Trauma had me interpreting basic words incorrectly due to inappropriate context. The way my parents taught me vocabulary was due to their own childhood contextual clues that were also distorted.
Enlightenment used to be such a historical word for me before I understood what it was attempting to imply. With spiritual light, we are able to see clearly — thus enlightenment.
The wise saints of old were these illuminated figures — and I wonder that if sometime in the future this will be a stage in childhood development. Light years from now; of course.
I just wonder... a lot.
That’s my childhood side that I felt as though I neglected, hated, shamed. My parents made me believe that I was incapable without intense, long term help. My parents took normal and transformed it into a disease. My parents took teenage sexuality and turned it into mental illness. My parents took the emotions radiating through me from sexual abuse, held them up in front of my face and said “this is who you are.”
Then they would tell the experts
And they’d all agree.
When was I free to define myself and my behaviors as my internal process saw fit? The slant my parents had was downhill and they had full control of this perception I saw of myself in their eyes. They told me how bad I was and at least it was interesting.
The limits they set for me were thick wood planks. And log by log they formed the biggest roller coaster on the east coast. It’s was a beautiful amusement park ride, right on a cliffs edge with an ocean roaring below. My parents strapped me in and said — “this will help you not fall off the cliff.”
They told me that if they had not strapped me into this very rollercoaster that I would have jumped off that cliff. I asked my father if he wasn’t married would he fuck his assistant?
I asked them why they led me to this beautiful view to begin with, and to that question — they had no clue what I was talking about.
I don’t want to be the parent that doesn’t have a clue. If I want to understand my child; first, l must understand myself.
I realized that the cliff ledge was beautiful. And I love just looking at it from a far. I did not wish to use heroin, I love the addict. My parents both fear them. This illustration — a roller coaster on the cliffs edge is indicative of the troubled teen industry. It’s filled with all my parents worst fears about me. And they gave me a childhood filled with a series of unfortunate events that they called “natural consequences of my behavior.”
Deconstructing their opinions of myself,
I blossomed into me.
The wild, pure impulse of wanting to bite into the first watermelon of the season. I miss that time of life. So, I took back the power. The golden tread was wrapped around the statutes I had erected of my mother and father.
I toppled those structures in 2020 and ever since then have been trying to figure out how to live — and who I am without that narrative playing on repeat in my head.
I’ve been listening to music lately.
Lots of pop music,
And I wonder when the vibe will change.
There’s a part of me that wants to listen to rhythms like this —
https://open.spotify.com/track/2yKczCmnpWYuIJuel6M0eV?si=tXEC90B0THKuaiLwkg_pYA
I am going through an awkward phase. I am not sure what type of style my future artist self or mother is to become. I am in the phase of life where I am creating her, now.
I remember being eighteen. Being in the middle of bumble-fuck and on a youth group old school bus. It was yellow and had all the bells and whistles. It the flashing stop sign on the side, even. They took us out of town to go shopping and ice skating. The shifty contraption that was donated was driven by the local pastor, whom I lived with.
My parent implied they were normal.
And all of this was simply my choosing.
Even though, I would have chosen to go home.
There I was sitting on one of those brown ripped benches without a seatbelt on. I was trying to figure out who I was to become after all this had passed. All I could think about during my time in those treatment centers was getting out — and all of a sudden, I was eighteen. Who was I besides another teen drug addict wannabe?
I resonated a lot with the stereotype of the “hippie.” I looked up pictures of the 1970s and I admired the long haired beauty queens. I wanted to base it off of something back at home — some neutral memory that felt genuine.
Halloween 2007, I wanted to be a hippie. A friend and I went to the pop-up costume stores that showed up around that time of the year. It was day of or day before and the flower child outfit was sold out. I dressed up in some Hawaiian skirt and I wore a crown — we took odd stuff here and there. I guess, I never forgot I wanted to be a hippie that year.
It was this identity that I was experimenting with — my father talked a lot about “weed” and it’s “insidious nature.” He said it ruined my uncles life and that’s why he doesn’t have kids or a wife at forty-years-old. And the more he lectured about the warnings, I got more and more curious for a second opinion.
It sounded like some mystery story, “How did my uncle ruin his life? Was it really the weed? Is it really that powerful?” My father turned drugs into a god when he was attempting to explain the devil.
Good and bad cannot be separated. Life is a rainbow marble swirled with color. Choosing a favorite is like extracting one shade or orange from the fruit of its shared name. I’ve been through the rabbit hole of cannabis addiction; and it had nothing to do with the medicine of the herb.
What I liked about addiction was the thrill it gave me; all while sitting on the couch. I was scared to live. I was scared to stretch my wings to even learn (because to learn, one must fail). What I was searching for when I lived at home was adventure that was the extreme opposite of who my parents were. Perhaps, I just wanted to live outside of their damn box.
What I loved about dark chaos was the story. It’s why I enjoy sad songs and books that make me cry. The art produced from these bold emotional wounds is beauty that digs its claws into that (hidden, internal) reptilian lust. What I was seeking was the feeling of glory that comes from the moment where one truly feels alive. It’s when the illusion of control is bent perfectly into my favour; and my hair is dancing in the wind — white beamer convertible with tan leather seats.
It’s less about the materialism and more about the fantasy of the senses. Even the poor live in mansions when they read about the aristocracy.
How I tie this all together is with a big pink bow that reads, “individual autonomy.” That is what I felt was deeply missing from all of this. My parents built me a rollercoaster of their worst nightmare — and I gained interest in the spectacular site. I do not wish to do that for my children. The limits I wish to uphold for them is with stones to design their dream castle in the clouds. The goal is to work together in their best interest — for what they want to do with their life.
This is not the 1800s and being a farmer just like my father is not the solution to my childhood identity crisis.
Wanting to be a “hippie” led me into religion, plant medicine, and into chiropractic school. That was not my intention, to base my entire life progression off of a Halloween costume that I did not get to be. But; I guess I did get to live out parts of the experience of my father’s time in the new age.
In grad school my new friends kept calling me, “a hippie.” And I would sharply remark — “no.” Because I had an instant memory of my young self on that bus in Idaho going to Spokane, Washington for a shopping trip... looking up pictures of who I wanted to be when I grew up.
All I wanted to say was, “I created this character on a bus off of a Halloween costume I never got to be; I am not a “hippie.” I am a fucking poser.”
The problem is that without this concept I created. I didn’t know who I was — the essence of who I was, the flavor of my natural likes and dislikes. Who was this person? I had buried her in a cement tomb filled with an endless stream of YouTube videos and vegan junk food. Wounded; slightly miserable — but watching those superstars felt as though I could be them vicariously.
As I walked away from the cliffs ledge; the amusement park on the pier over looking the jagged ocean cliffs — I thought. It was one of those endless walks way. It felt like running around those neighbors that had a country club in the center. It’s circular, insulated with a gate and has the illusion that perhaps it is protected from the pain of stranger danger.
I still jogged with my keys between my fingers as a dagger as if I would had to stab someone at any moment, casually strolling on the sidewalk. And I walked away from the childish narrative my parents had once written. I took off the foolish halloween costume that I had on. Who I am is the natural perfume of my body; it’s the rhythm of my heart and the ripple of that supernatural breath inside the body.
It’s not something I can describe.
It’s just apart of everything I like;
And hate.
When I began reading this child rearing book; I thought about my own past life and the life I was raising now. My hope is to guide my children and show them that they create the guard rails. It is them that set limits so that they drive along this mountainous terrain.
I began thinking of the ways I perceived limits and rules — and the maladaptive ways I have handled it all after getting off that rollercoaster ride of vomit. I had to get out of the desolate amusement park where the population was just me. So, I left.
And I’ve been walking,
Ever since.
Some say I left god,
Some say I found her.
All the best,
@laurabell
April 13, 2021