My Side Of The Story

That's actually the name I wanted for my blog, but it was taken. I'm a big Criminal Minds fan, and one of my favorite episodes is the one where Prentiss investigates a friend's death committed by a priest who is murdering people in the guise of exorcism. The episode ends with lyrics: "this is my side of the story, only my side of the story" and the first time I heard them, I thought, "Wow. I wonder if you can do that? Just tell your side of the story and not bother explaining everyone else's side? Maybe just tell it and not feel like you have to justify it? Just say....this is my side of the story." It made me feel so liberated.

See, I grew up too aware of everyone else's feelings and needs and too inclined to put them ahead of my own. I desperately wanted everyone to be happy and thought I could--and should--finesse that. But some people are determined to be unhappy, so it's a waste of energy trying to change that.

When I learned one of my recent posts upset a relative, my first thought was "She's lucky I didn't blog about..." and then I started thinking....maybe I should, not to be petty or hurtful, though I'm sure she'll take it that way, but because maybe I've carried that pain around long enough.

Starting about the time I was eleven, this relative's marriage started to unravel, and I got dragged into it more than I should have, which was not entirely her fault. My mom was the one in the best position to help her, which means we took her and her two children in several times, and there were seemingly endless conversations and phone calls and stress. I couldn't help pick it up both consciously and unconsciously. But the biggest mistake came the summer I was twelve, when I wound up spending fifteen hours a week, babysitting for her, mostly to give another relative--who was her main babysitter--a break.

My relative was all too willing to fill me in on lots of drama about her ex-husband, his abuse, and the fact that he was stalking her. She assured me he spent most of his time watching the house. Meanwhile, I spent fifteen hours a week in a house full of tense, fearful, and miserable vibes with two small children, one who reflected the misery with anger and defiance, the other with clinginess and tears. I could not take them outside. I could not even open the drapes. And every time I heard the slightest sound, I was sure that my crazy and abusive ex-uncle had turned up, possibly with a gun and possibly with an accomplice, to kill or kidnap the kids and it was my responsibility to keep them safe.

At the time, I hated this, but didn't question it. Years later, when I realized that what was being asked of me was unfair for a twelve-year-old child, I confronted my mom about it. She sighed and asked me if I really thought she and my dad would put me in that position. It took me a minute to figure out what she meant, which was that I was never in that situation. It might have been how my relative perceived it, but it wasn't how everyone else did.

My mom said, "He was crazy and abusive, but he wasn't coming for those kids. If I knew you'd bought into her PTSD so much I would  have tried to find another alternative....though I did try to find another alternative and I just couldn't, but I wish I could undo it."

So do I. Often I've wanted to confront my relative to see if she believed her own rhetoric and, if so, why she put me in the situation. In fact, once, at a family party, when I looked at her oldest daughter and realized she was exactly the same age I was that summer, I wanted to ask "Would you have put her in that situation?" But I also realize it wouldn't do any good. She still sees things the same way and would respond by rattling off all her own wounds, while ignoring mine, or maybe she'd add mine to her list of grievances against him, but she'd never admit she was at fault.

Forgiveness is supposed to be about accepting that the past can't be any different and I struggle with that. Part of the problem is that I had so few summers left, at least healthy ones. By the time I was sixteen, I was chronically ill. It might have been nice to have spent fifteen hours a week the summer I was twelve doing something else.

As I approach twenty years of chronic illness and thirty-six years of life, I've come to a few decisions. One is that I am going to surround myself with people who love and understand me, who bring out the best in me, who reflect what I believe, who honor my truth. See, it turns out that, as adults, family relationships are optional, and I'm opting out of a few. It also turns out that I can delete comments, ignore emails or phone calls, and only have people I actually like on Facebook. I can say what I want and, if people don't like it, they can go away.

I can tell my side of the story and that's what I'm going to do.