I’m hit with a realization this last week that I’ve been pledging loyalty to ghosts in an extremely unhealthy way.

Or maybe it feels that way to me today, now, as I write this because I know it. So it hovers over me like an interrogation lamp you see in the movies.

At the time, and through my life, that loyalty was probably a survival mechanism.

I felt an obligation to honor the legacy of my parents by holding them on a pedestal. Of honoring their superhero status.

Throughout my childhood, throughout my life, keeping the dark secrets.

Exposing any of the truth, especially when those who are dead cannot defend their reasoning; it seemed unfair.

It seemed wrong.

And I was committed to seeing things through the lens of a mountain of excuses crafted by my imagination, in a one-sided attempt to keep them alive.

As I wanted to see them.

As I felt I probably had to see them, to maintain any semblance of sanity. Or normal.

Normal is what I crave. I just want to be vanilla and blend in and not make waves.

People wouldn’t be able to understand.

How could they?

As I have retold memories from my childhood, people have consistently recoiled in horror.

The things that were said. The things that were done.

The things that were not said. The things that were not done.

And I’ve seen that and I’ve always quickly gone to work kicking scented kitty litter over top of that steaming pile of shit.

I never saw any other way and I never saw any other option.

Did I hold out twenty years since Dad’s death to get to the anger stage of the grieving process?

Cause I’m mad.

I used to replay the memories of my life like virtual reality. I can remember what I wore, how my clothes made me feel, how rooms smelled, how I felt.

I have recalled memories and sprayed the smell of sunshine over the whole story like a perfume.

Sunshine smells good, it feels good, it is good.

It is difficult, if not impossible, for me now, as I type this, at 42 years old, to see things any other way than how they were.

And I cease to sense any sunshine of any form.

They are dead. There will be no judge and no jury and no admittance of any wrongdoings and no asking for forgiveness but yet I must find some way to grant forgiveness, because I know that is the Right Thing To Do.

I am certain: it is the Healthy Thing To Do.

By maintaining a generous amount of space for the grandiose pile of excuses, I left no room for myself to acknowledge and to feel and to work through the consequences of those excuses and the impact on my own life.

As if my life didn’t matter.

It was I who hung myself out to dry. Everyone else was dead.

When I say, “Lori was just not fit to be a mother. She really had no business having kids.”

I minimize the impact of neglect and its consequence of insecure attachment on me which has made me rely on exactly no one, and is difficult to form healthy relationships with others because “normal” people need to feel needed, and I just don’t need anyone. And I never will.

When I say, “Dad’s dad died when he was a teen. He probably didn’t know how to be a father, and he was raised in a different era where fathers were disconnected and hands-off and children were to be seen and not heard.”

I minimize the impact of a one-sided relationship. Being shown love when its convenient has consequently made me extremely anxious about being in the way or an inconvenience. Because I learned those things mean love or feeling loved is withheld.

When I say, “Mom probably had some undiagnosed mental health condition.”

I minimize the negative impact of the chaotic household. A childhood spent never knowing which Mom is sitting on the couch when I got home from school has convinced me that in time the other side of people will show.

And I constantly test that theory until it is validated because I have pushed all of the other person’s available buttons, evoking a negative response that may or may not be outside of their normal character, but really just validates my assumption that everybody is chaotic and cannot be trusted for stability.

And then I make an excuse for them, too: “I pushed it too far.”

By doing that, I gloss over the fact that all humans have a choice to act and react but I go ahead and take ownership and responsibility for being at fault for both when it is negative.

All of that said … here are the good parts that came out of all of the bad:

I want and see the best potential in people and shine a light on it for them and can work endlessly to help them achieve it.

I am extremely sensitive to mood undercurrents. I know when someone is turning sad or angry often before they do, and I’ve gotten really good at asking thoughtful questions when I see it – so they can stop it in its tracks. I have realized recently I only put this effort in to people that I like and respect. Fuck those other guys. They are just assholes.

I am a great listener and I love helping people to troubleshoot through their own sessions of self reflection and growth.

I don’t care much for bullshitting and favor transparency and telling it like it is. I will sugar coat for people that I see really working towards progress, but if you are just an asshole I will mirror that energy back to you every day of the week.

I learned that forgiveness is one of the keys to happiness – and will work through this internal parental conflict until I achieve a state of forgiveness that stems from reality … moving forward. Cause I sure as shit thought I had nothing to forgive … and that is not even remotely close to reality.