Good God. I’ve just about had it with anyone who said this a lonely pursuit. It’s not. It’s crowded in here. My parents are back from the dead. My teenage sister is as snarky as ever, and my thoughts are just as messed up as they were in high school.
I just slammed through a couple of scenes where I knew I was right, but I was so totally wrong! I had a conversation with a friend of mine a couple of years ago. Very similar to me, he had lost his parents one right after the other. Only he was in his early 30s, whereas I was in my early 20s. Nevertheless, I had enough distance from the spring of 1987 and summer of 1988 (forever known as the most fucked summer of 1988) that I could offer a little bit of perspective. The conversation doesn’t matter, but the question he asked me does. At the end of the conversation he asked, “So, when does the forgiving start?”
And I worry a little bit about that, you see. That question weighs a little heavier on my mind today. Just when do we forgive each other? I said horrible, hateful things to my parents, (and my poor, dear siblings). I was a total smart ass. There’s no doubt about it. The person I projected with my friends was completely innocent of the crimes I committed against my family. Today, as I dove into the scene I had with my father (when I was completely sure he was going to let me leave Anaconda and start singing in bars … I’m not making this up) I remembered saying some horrible, hateful things. And … it was like he didn’t hear them, or he had nerves of steel, because he was so totally cool about the whole thing.
And I was being a real shit, let me tell you. But in a way he was too. Kinda. Well probably not as big a shit as I remember … but still.
So when does the forgiving start?
I get this sense that I need to let myself off the hook, but I gotta tell you, that’s the hardest part of this whole journey.