I have a love/hate relationship with my youth, where I was raised, my childhood friends, my family, etc. On the one hand, I’m fascinated that it was so long ago. The 15 years or so I’ve spent since diagnosis heads-down focused on undoing the PTSD means that I missed a huge transition.
I’m old now, my childhood friends and former customers are grandparents, retiring, etc. and somehow I missed the last act. There’s a part of me that’s going, “Okay, now I’m healthy. I can have kids.” Except of course, I can’t, and if I could I probably shouldn’t.
It’s like the house and everything else. I’ve been so focused for so long on dealing with the pain and ramifications of the kid crap that I’ve had “hardly any” time to actually be an adult. I still have to get rid of the stuff. I still have other pieces to undo. But while I’ve been focused between my head to my toes, the rest of the world . . . has moved on.
And I haven’t.
Okay. I can deal with it. I’m not sick. I had resigned myself to not having kids years ago. But I feel like I just got out of college or something. I’ve spent decades working towards this point, and by the time I wade thru the remaining crap, empty the storage and finish the projects I have started, it maybe time to check into a mortuary or old folks home. Or, I may have a few more years where I can move and talk and function — or I may not.
As I said in another post: years ago I decided I did NOT want to be a character in an Ibsen play – work and work and work towards something and then “poof” it’s gone, for some reason the character has no control over. Mr. Ibsen must be laughing his f’n head off.