Playing with ideas and honoring my gifts … sharing the retirement experience.
I will probably have to make this the introduction to any memoir I write.
As I go about the process of living, I turn my life into stories. Individuals in these stories tend to be recognizable and some of them dislike that, even though I try to show all their facets, not just the bad and not just the good. Consequently, I will probably have published under a pseudonym. They will still be able to recognize one another, but they’ll likely remain anonymous to the rest of the world.
Over time, societal assumptions strongly influence family dynamics.
The underlying social premises are that self-employment is harder and deserves more consideration than working for someone else. Working while raising a family deserves more respect and accommodation than does a child free couple or individual. Money is the best measure of status. Living without drama is considered cold at worst and reserved at best.
This, of course, is the perspective of the divorced child free oldest sister (me) who actually lived away from home for nearly 20 years. With no family and only new friends and acquaintances available, an inclination toward reserved self-reliance was adaptive. When coupled with my independent egalitarian attitudes and a compulsion to ask “why,” my company is less than comfortable. And, I get tired of censoring myself just to keep the peace. (Probably why I’m divorced and contentedly single!) I also get tired of having the same arguments over and over again.
Fortunately, I usually find a few coworkers and friends who are interested in ideas: talking about them, comparing them, evaluating them. The trick is finding people who remain civil when their viewpoints are challenged. I enjoy a good discussion and have been known to argue against my own viewpoint just for the fun of it.
Since I don’t ask for help often, I’m taken seriously when I do. When asking for that help, I try to prioritize the other person’s circumstances. When I’m asked for my opinion, I give it. I try to do it gently and may even confirm it’s really wanted, but then I express it. I’m good at problem solving, at finding common ground and at establishing the parameters of a situation. I’ve gotten better at doing what I feel is right and letting go of the outcome. I am happy to express compassion and offer reasonable support. I will not offer platitudes or accept faulty reasoning. I don’t think assigning guilt or engendering it is helpful in relationships, especially among family. Hear both sides of the issue and then move on.
Within my family, this means I’ve assumed the roles of rebel, negotiator, advocate, critic and outcast … sometimes concurrently. I play caretaker judiciously. Since I’ve given family members persona designations, I’ve given myself one to be fair. As the family Ice Princess, I value logic over emotion and fairness over winning.
I implement my beliefs imperfectly. I slip back into consumerism. I avoid confrontation and procrastinate. I question the value of life. At bedrock though, I believe that everyone’s (and everything’s) life has value. And that includes mine.
How do you know when a relationship has ended? There are obvious moments: When one of you asks for a divorce. When you realize that you are happier when you arrive home to an empty house. When you stop caring about his opinion because it is always so negative, or critical, or judgemental.
But a hundred tiny moments come before those big moments. Some are identifiable landmarks. Others are cumulative.
In my case, I began by putting the other person first. Every time I chose myself instead, the relationship developed a crack. Those small cracks waited for the bigger events to fissure and spread.
The first cracks and the first landmark evolved together. While he was away at basic training, he wrote and sent a “Dear Jane” letter which he followed with a request to destroy it without reading it. I did. A few months later, he proposed by phone. I planned the wedding. When he got home, he visited a childhood friend and cancelled the wedding – also by phone. At the time, I was unaware of any connection. I called it cold feet and panic. We were young.
A few days passed. Driving home with my parents, I simply knew he was at the house waiting. I told them and, when we got there, he was. My grandfather had refused to talk to him, so he was napping in his car. I talked to him. I was 21 years old. I agreed to wear his ring and to keep talking. All this resulted in the wedding he planned and I flew to Louisiana for. He forgot a bouquet and none of my family or friends could attend.
He shaped the circumstances, but I was always the one who chose and acted. I wound up with the responsibility.
I didn’t have to forgive. I didn’t have to say, “Yes.” I didn’t have to leave home.
The Practical Bohemian 