LJ Idol: And you seem so bruised and it's beautiful (Week 7)
therealljidol Entry of the Week: "Sometimes Being Right Isn’t All It’s Cracked Up To Be”
(If you like what you've read, vote for me this weekend!)
Famous American poet Emily Dickinson had a very neurotic, often sick mother and a dominating father. She attended Mount Holyoke college. Though only ten miles away from her family, she felt homesick. Her parents and brother visited her quite often, but after three semesters, Emily left college and never returned despite good grades. To her friend, Jane Humphrey, she wrote, "I'm afraid I'm growing selfish in my dear home, but I do love it so, and when some pleasant friend invites me to pass a week with her, I look at my father and mother and Vinnie, and all my friends, and I say no-no, can't leave them, what if they die when I'm gone?"
Setting: My household, circa senior year of high school
"Mom, did you put my Geneva application in the mail?" I inquire casually as I swing through the kitchen door, the high-school bus rumbling away in the distance.
My mother nods in an absent-minded way and continues to stir the pot of green beans simmering with butter. "I found this addressed to you, but I opened it. Are you going?" She thrusts the paper into my hands.
Scanning the sheet, I discover it to be an application to a rock concert--in Oklahoma--from my youth leader. I cringe inwardly, and my stomach gurgles with nervousness and excitement. Of course I wished to attend; my favorite bands screamed across the headlines of the flier attached to the permission slip. Unfortunately, the "ifs" rattled my brain. What if I became carsick? What if my teachers assign homework for that weekend? And-most importantly-what would I do if Dad grew sicker or if he decided to die while I enjoyed myself at a concert thousands of miles away? How selfish of me to even consider traveling to such a venue!
As if reading my mind and encouraging my paranoid thoughts, Mom suddenly quips, "Dad wouldn't eat today. Maybe you should bring this drink into his room and ask him if he's feeling better." I nod obediently and carry the chilled glass of water to my father, my father with the eyes rolling around the room, nestled in his hospital bed, sweating profusely. Despite his bedridden, cancerous state, Dad still intimidates me, though the sternness has considerably faded.
"Here comes the Geneva girl," Dad rasps with a slow smile crawling over his face, looking almost macabre against his sunken cheekbones. He eyes the drink and reaches for it; I hand it to him before seating myself on the edge of the bed.
I giggle. "Dad, I didn't get accepted to Geneva yet. I still have to look at other colleges. There's one in New York, a couple in Ohio I'd like to tour. They have Spanish as a major! I guess Geneva discontinued Spanish," I added this last sentence a little sadly.
"Spanish…a nice language. New York is a bit far. Where are these Ohio schools?" Dad struggles to sit up against his pillow, so I help him as best I can.
"They're far away. I probably won't check them out anyway. Who would drive me? Mom can't leave you…it's okay, I don't need Spanish," I stutter. "Geneva's good enough."
Dad agrees. "Pastor Doug's girl goes there--it's close by, too, luckily, so you can visit on weekends…" he begins to drift, and his lids close sleepily, but he still watches me. "What's that on your lap?" he grunts.
Oh. The concert permission slip. I had forgotten about it. "Oh!" I laugh. "Nothing. Just some garbage from the mail; don't worry about it." I crumple the papers into a ball and toss them effortlessly into the trashcan across the room.
"I wish you had gone into basketball when you had the chance," my father comments approvingly.
"It's a bit late for that," I remark, as I stand and leave the room, preparing myself for a night of homework assignments that would guarantee me good grades and Geneva scholarships. I didn't have time for dreams.
---------------------------------------
From 1999 to 2003, I spent those formative years in the shadow of my father's disease.
While my peers landed jobs, drivers' licenses, and dates, I was lifting my dad onto his potty chair, feeding him milkshakes, and calming him when he woke wailing in the night-time. My mother, brother and I neglected ourselves to devote our time to his care. My aspirations of being Someone led me to Geneva College where I decided to get a BA in Writing. I stuck with what was safe--I considered myself a decent writer. Midway through college, I rekindled a romance with my childhood love. Even when I outgrew the relationship, I stayed with him because he glowed with a warm familiarity. Besides, the guy knew my father. I found rides home every single weekend, even when friends invited me to parties. I preferred to sit at my father's bedside and hold his hand for a few brief moments before I returned to my textbooks. The above story illustrates how Dad's illness colored many, if not all, of my decisions.
Dad passed away in August 2003. I had sacrificed so much energy into my father that I no longer knew how to channel my motivations. I don't regret that I spent all my free time with Dad, but in many ways his diagnosis of cancer was a death sentence for me. I had subconsciously pulled myself away from any opportunities for growth. I feared that Dad would die if I decided to go my own way. I had avoided driving because I feared I would drive away from my problems a la Gilbert Grape. I had avoided jobs because careers meant a possible geographical move. Any interest in anything outside of my dad would be a betrayal. Eventually, I had avoided making much effort to succeed in anything, whether it be personal or academic. I fell into a severe depression that worsened throughout Dad's illness.
After Dad died, a weight lifted from my shoulders. I woke up as if from a long dream. I began attending classes again, and for the first time in college, I made the Dean's List. I learned how to drive shortly before my 22nd birthday, even though I felt ridiculous sitting next to 16 year-olds in the DMV. I left the familar boyfriend and in time I met a very unfamiliar but wonderful man who I remain with today. Lastly, I embarked in an extreme leap of faith by moving to another state and finding my first real job. It felt startling to untie myself from the strings that held me taut to Dad's ghost, but I've never felt more free.
Was I wrong in forsaking my life to care for my dad? No? It was the right thing to do. The Bible told me to honor my father, and I was fortunate enough to have a dad worthy of this honor and love.
However, being right wasn't all it was cracked up to be. In retrospect, my behavior stunted my emotional growth. There is no set age for the milestones we make when maturing, but I can't help but wonder how I would have turned out had I pursued goals when my peers did. The "what ifs" would eat me alive if I'd let them. I remember that all of the joys and tribulations I've endured have formed me into the person I am today, and I cannot change the past.
All the same, I wish I had made time for my dreams.
(If you like what you've read, vote for me this weekend!)
Famous American poet Emily Dickinson had a very neurotic, often sick mother and a dominating father. She attended Mount Holyoke college. Though only ten miles away from her family, she felt homesick. Her parents and brother visited her quite often, but after three semesters, Emily left college and never returned despite good grades. To her friend, Jane Humphrey, she wrote, "I'm afraid I'm growing selfish in my dear home, but I do love it so, and when some pleasant friend invites me to pass a week with her, I look at my father and mother and Vinnie, and all my friends, and I say no-no, can't leave them, what if they die when I'm gone?"
Setting: My household, circa senior year of high school
"Mom, did you put my Geneva application in the mail?" I inquire casually as I swing through the kitchen door, the high-school bus rumbling away in the distance.
My mother nods in an absent-minded way and continues to stir the pot of green beans simmering with butter. "I found this addressed to you, but I opened it. Are you going?" She thrusts the paper into my hands.
Scanning the sheet, I discover it to be an application to a rock concert--in Oklahoma--from my youth leader. I cringe inwardly, and my stomach gurgles with nervousness and excitement. Of course I wished to attend; my favorite bands screamed across the headlines of the flier attached to the permission slip. Unfortunately, the "ifs" rattled my brain. What if I became carsick? What if my teachers assign homework for that weekend? And-most importantly-what would I do if Dad grew sicker or if he decided to die while I enjoyed myself at a concert thousands of miles away? How selfish of me to even consider traveling to such a venue!
As if reading my mind and encouraging my paranoid thoughts, Mom suddenly quips, "Dad wouldn't eat today. Maybe you should bring this drink into his room and ask him if he's feeling better." I nod obediently and carry the chilled glass of water to my father, my father with the eyes rolling around the room, nestled in his hospital bed, sweating profusely. Despite his bedridden, cancerous state, Dad still intimidates me, though the sternness has considerably faded.
"Here comes the Geneva girl," Dad rasps with a slow smile crawling over his face, looking almost macabre against his sunken cheekbones. He eyes the drink and reaches for it; I hand it to him before seating myself on the edge of the bed.
I giggle. "Dad, I didn't get accepted to Geneva yet. I still have to look at other colleges. There's one in New York, a couple in Ohio I'd like to tour. They have Spanish as a major! I guess Geneva discontinued Spanish," I added this last sentence a little sadly.
"Spanish…a nice language. New York is a bit far. Where are these Ohio schools?" Dad struggles to sit up against his pillow, so I help him as best I can.
"They're far away. I probably won't check them out anyway. Who would drive me? Mom can't leave you…it's okay, I don't need Spanish," I stutter. "Geneva's good enough."
Dad agrees. "Pastor Doug's girl goes there--it's close by, too, luckily, so you can visit on weekends…" he begins to drift, and his lids close sleepily, but he still watches me. "What's that on your lap?" he grunts.
Oh. The concert permission slip. I had forgotten about it. "Oh!" I laugh. "Nothing. Just some garbage from the mail; don't worry about it." I crumple the papers into a ball and toss them effortlessly into the trashcan across the room.
"I wish you had gone into basketball when you had the chance," my father comments approvingly.
"It's a bit late for that," I remark, as I stand and leave the room, preparing myself for a night of homework assignments that would guarantee me good grades and Geneva scholarships. I didn't have time for dreams.
---------------------------------------
From 1999 to 2003, I spent those formative years in the shadow of my father's disease.
While my peers landed jobs, drivers' licenses, and dates, I was lifting my dad onto his potty chair, feeding him milkshakes, and calming him when he woke wailing in the night-time. My mother, brother and I neglected ourselves to devote our time to his care. My aspirations of being Someone led me to Geneva College where I decided to get a BA in Writing. I stuck with what was safe--I considered myself a decent writer. Midway through college, I rekindled a romance with my childhood love. Even when I outgrew the relationship, I stayed with him because he glowed with a warm familiarity. Besides, the guy knew my father. I found rides home every single weekend, even when friends invited me to parties. I preferred to sit at my father's bedside and hold his hand for a few brief moments before I returned to my textbooks. The above story illustrates how Dad's illness colored many, if not all, of my decisions.
Dad passed away in August 2003. I had sacrificed so much energy into my father that I no longer knew how to channel my motivations. I don't regret that I spent all my free time with Dad, but in many ways his diagnosis of cancer was a death sentence for me. I had subconsciously pulled myself away from any opportunities for growth. I feared that Dad would die if I decided to go my own way. I had avoided driving because I feared I would drive away from my problems a la Gilbert Grape. I had avoided jobs because careers meant a possible geographical move. Any interest in anything outside of my dad would be a betrayal. Eventually, I had avoided making much effort to succeed in anything, whether it be personal or academic. I fell into a severe depression that worsened throughout Dad's illness.
After Dad died, a weight lifted from my shoulders. I woke up as if from a long dream. I began attending classes again, and for the first time in college, I made the Dean's List. I learned how to drive shortly before my 22nd birthday, even though I felt ridiculous sitting next to 16 year-olds in the DMV. I left the familar boyfriend and in time I met a very unfamiliar but wonderful man who I remain with today. Lastly, I embarked in an extreme leap of faith by moving to another state and finding my first real job. It felt startling to untie myself from the strings that held me taut to Dad's ghost, but I've never felt more free.
Was I wrong in forsaking my life to care for my dad? No? It was the right thing to do. The Bible told me to honor my father, and I was fortunate enough to have a dad worthy of this honor and love.
However, being right wasn't all it was cracked up to be. In retrospect, my behavior stunted my emotional growth. There is no set age for the milestones we make when maturing, but I can't help but wonder how I would have turned out had I pursued goals when my peers did. The "what ifs" would eat me alive if I'd let them. I remember that all of the joys and tribulations I've endured have formed me into the person I am today, and I cannot change the past.
All the same, I wish I had made time for my dreams.