With me, I have finally begun to recognize that I have been relying on the excuse of what would my parents think--it is an excuse I use to keep myself limited, keep myself from trying the things I really want to do because I'm afraid to try those things. Afraid to try things I don't really know how to do and afraid to try out my dreams because maybe they won't work out afterall or maybe they are the "wrong" dreams.
Let me give an example. I am interested in local history and one project I am especially interested in is researching African American history of the 19th century for the county I live in. Finding who the people were and what their lives were like. I looked up every singe census record for the entire century and found every African American here who was listed as such. I have a box full of cards with this information listed for each person I found, named or not.
The next step is to look at other records like the newspapers and surrogate records and flesh out the people I already have and find the ones who were missed by the census. The goal being a book.
Several years ago, I wrote up what I had and sent in an article to the local paper for the op/ed page. It was printed along with my picture. Several people complimented me on this article. It appeared the week before Easter. On Easter Sunday I had the relatives over for dinner. My father attended as usual. And somewhere towards the end of the day, he berated me for publishing such an article. He was a very prejudiced man. He couldn't believe I would even research such a topic. Why was I interested in
that? Why would I
write about it? Why would I
publish it? What would
other people think? What if someone
threatened me for this (yes, that was really a concern of his).
I was just devastated. I will never forget how that made me feel.
There was also some negative fallout from my former N-boss over this article. But that was minor compared to the reaction I got from my father.
It has taken me a long time to admit to myself however, that the real reason I let that project sit for the past five years, was not so much because of what he said, but because I was afraid I really couldn't write a book. Even just a few months ago, when I started to think about it again, I thought, well what if you do finish the research and write the book and get it printed and sold--well then peope will want you to come speak to their groups about it. You're busy, and kind of shy, and maybe you will embarrass yourself when people expect you to be an expert and maybe you're not an expert at all. What if, what if, what if.....
The problem is with me, not so much anymore with what my father would've have thought, or what rude thing my mother will think of to say if she ever learned about my project. Hey, I didn't even bother to tell her about it after my father's unsupportive reaction. But it is true, what ReallyMe says--ultimately, the responsibility for being brave enough to go ahead with my interests and goals lies with me. Not my family and not my sad past. It lies with me.
So, for me, the goal of healing is to become my real self and to go ahead with my interests and goals regardless of the past or the damage done to me. It is true that the damage is real and that it was caused by things done by people who should have cared more. But if I want to heal I have to leave that behind at some point.
That's where I'm at right now--still lots to work on. But seeing a little more clearly
.
Pennyplant
