Welcome to My Issues aka Am I Done Yet?

I am every therapist's dream. Literally. Every single issue I have can easily be traced back to my mother and father. I was like some super sponge of a kid soaking up all of the good and bad aspects of both of them. I didn't pick and choose. I'm an overachiever. Why have just one issue from one parent? What good is that? No, I want them all. That way, I have something to do for the rest of my life: fix myself. And what a joy that's been. Let me tell you. Oh, that's right. I have been telling you.

The thing is, my parents were totally opposite yet in some ways, exactly the same. So I've basically become a schizophrenic version of the two of them-- which has made for an interesting time-- and personality. At least, I'm interesting. Or at least I hope I am. See? There I go again. My dad had the ego. My mother had none. My dad was a perfectionist. He liked things immaculate and clean. My mother? Let's just say tortilla chips, bread crumbs and coffee grounds have been known to stay on the kitchen floor for longer than a day although less than a week. My dad loved being treated like a king. He loved being fancy. My mother is simpler. She doesn't really care about that so much. Living high, being catered to-- it never really mattered to her. My dad liked modern furniture and houses. My mom, antiques. So how did those two crazy kids ever fall in love and get married? Forget get married. How did they ever procreate? Better yet: why did they? Neither one of them wanted to be parents. Ah, if only they had had a crystal ball.

Neither of my parents were travelers. They didn't put a premium on seeing the world. Both, though-- were hardworking. And they were geographically desirable. To each other. They both have selective memory. And are fighters. In every sense of the word. Although my mom takes things personally. My dad never did. He knew how to make it personal, though. He was good at that. Both were obsessed with money. Not having enough for my mom. Having it, spending it, and holding onto it for himself for my dad. My dad wasn't generous. My mom? I think she would be if she could be. And she has been at times. My mother is loyal. To a fault. My dad? Apparently he was to his other kids. So there you go. What do I really know after all?

My parents were married for 13 years. It never made sense to me. How that could have happened. How could they hate each for 13 years? Sure, it explains a lack of baby pictures for me-- the marriage was over at that point. But still. Where did the love go? Luckily it helped when I talked to my dad about it. And my mom, too. When I asked about love, they remembered it. It helped to hear them both remember it. And their mistakes. What went wrong. It's just, my sister and me? We never saw love. My dad said that his parents never told him that they loved him. I could see that.

I've never seen my sister and her husband kiss-- other than on their wedding day. They don't hold hands. They don't show love. It breaks my heart. My sister? She's happy. Me? I want to show love. I want it shown back. Otherwise, what's the point? Is there a point? You can have a roommate if you don't care about that. Although there is the procreating part... Well, what to do, what to do? I think love is meant to be felt and shown. I think empathy is good. Feeling is better. I know hurt is part of it. Pain. It's all about risk, isn't it? I know alot of things I've done are wrong. I also know that I've conquered a few issues in my day. Which makes me sound gladiator-like. Which is kind of fun. If only.

My mother and my sister both pat me when they hug. I think I've mentioned that before. I don't want to be patted. I'm not a dog. Perhaps that's my issue with picking up after them. Did I mention that my father completely forgot that he had a dog when he got married to my stepmother? Fritz. He was a miniature schnauzer. How do you forget a dog?

Anyway, I don't want to punish my father. Or my mother. They both have reasons for the way they are. They were children when they got married. And they were children when they had their own. It doesn't mean I've had a hey day fixing myself. It doesn't mean that it doesn't make me sad to think of of what didn't have to happen and what did. I always said I'd find someone once I fixed myself. I never thought it would take me 38 years. Still. I think I'm closer to done than I used to be. Although, no one's ever done, I guess. Maybe the difference is in just knowing if it matters and knowing who it matters to.