Most of us come from some sort of dysfunctional. I always joke that my dysfunction is out there for the whole world to see—there’s no way to hide it. But, part of me does hide it. Not because I’m ashamed or even embarrassed, but because I do not want my past to continue to define me.
Our past shapes us—there’s no doubt about that. Sometimes, it’s good; sometimes it’s just plain scary.
This past weekend, my Grandma died. She’s not someone that I ever talk about, but I was born on her birthday. While I’m sad for my Grandpa and cousins that she is gone, I haven’t felt that sadness for myself yet, and I don’t know if I ever will. Maybe because I haven’t talked to her in a few years and haven’t had a relationship with her in a couple of decades. She wasn’t a bad person—she just chose to not be a part of my life.
When I think about my story, I often wonder what I would think if someone else told me this story and it was their past. Would I feel sorry for them? Would I admire them? Would I think less of them? The answer varies depending on the day.
When I started this blog, a big part of it was to overcome my fear of what people think of me. Over the past couple of years, I’ve shared lots of stories of my girls and my angsts, but I’ve never really shared MY story. I’ve had several reasons for that. #1—I don’t want pity. #2—I don’t want to add fuel to the fire for people who read this blog, who are not a part of my life anymore. #3—I don’t want to bore you any more than I already do.
But, I feel an urging inside of me to tell my story. So I will. And I hope it doesn’t change your view of me. But if it does, then I pray that it serves as a reminder to me that my value is not dependant on what you think of me.