The Love Bubble 12-9-2012

This is a somewhat progressive blog. Feel FREE to begin by clicking to my first post: Boologging Begins

 

This is a picture of my bubbly, almost 2-year-old, grandson. His parents are raising him under their protective bubble. He is active; and, of course, this grandma adores his exploring, resourceful, enchanting nature.

I apologize that today's post begins with a "Debbie Downer" article. As I write about my childhood home, I strive to balance between helping you understand my home from a respectful, grown-up perspective, yet experiencing it using child-like memory. I earnestly seek to use humor, but some things are not funny. I will try to limit heavy posts like this to just one or two.

I share the following recent news report because in it we see a distinct paradox. This story is about a 6-hour, spirited, bubbly wedding celebration that suddenly turns sour:

Media reports say a Brazilian bridegroom bled to death at his wedding reception when he tripped and fell on an empty glass of beer...the freak accident occurred 6 hours after...[the groom] tied the knot... [Groom] Maciel was dancing with one of the bridesmaids when he lost his balance and fell to the ground, shattering the glass he was carrying in his left pants pocket...a piece of glass severed his femoral vein, causing a massive loss of blood.

Blissful celebration turns to nightmare. The wedding's  bubbly paradox portrays how I feel about my home, with Dad's "fall" into bubbly alcoholism. My parents maneuvered through 14 years of job changes, two house moves, five child births, infant spinal meningitis, and welcoming child number six...then the bliss seemed to... SUDDENLY... and inexplicably shatter. 

When I was just 6, my invincible, fun-loving, sensitive yet strong... Daddy... emotionally abandoned me.

Dad was the high-strung, responsible, sole breadwinner of the family who tended to worry; and from time to time, he worried a lot and drank a lot. I, too, worried... about him, for what seemed like a lifetime. Why did I worry about him? Why did I become the parent? Why did it take 11 years for our home to finally settle down? 

In High School, during the last half of my senior year, my parents separated for 6 months. Mom was in hiding, hours away with my younger sisters; I would have been with her, but I pleaded to live with my best friend... At graduation I don't recall family members attending to support me. Surely Dad was somewhere in the audience (I know that Mom was not); memories are blurred, but there are no graduation pictures of me with family; just one of me with my friend in front of her home, and another, accepting my diploma.

Dad succumbed to sobriety and to God at age 50; that is when health issues strongly surfaced for him. Alcohol had taken a toll on his body, and worry intensified symptoms. Because of that, bringing up sensitive, past issues was ignored; and in those days, we didn't even know the importance of it. Just forget it! Thus, we pretended those 11 nightmare years never happened. Dad's blissful motto was: Deny the past and use "agreeable voices" lest our "love bubble" burst; Mom's motto continued to be: Shelter Dad from worry.

The only way I know to describe my response to our alcoholic home is that I existed, kind of in my own autrovert bubble, depressed some days, almost mechanical and train-like. In my 50s, after 35 years of forced sobriety (see my post "Hic, Hiccup!") I am FINALLY beginning to see the ways I am like Dad, and MY dysfunctional quirks.

A radio speaker shared his grandmother's candid feelings about her son-in-law: Your Father would be a wonderful man... if only he were different!!!" (Ha! This is an oh so honest, human longing!)

I'm grateful to begin understanding Dad a little better. I wish that Mom, Dad, and I could be together for a while... and just say nothing... to enjoy each other's company. Then, maybe we would take a long walk together and talk about why, with no blaming. Then maybe I would weep, and be the vulnerable one, and they would console me and cheer me on. Then I could share about how fallible I am. And then, finally, we could laugh together playing Scrabble and watching my funny Talk Show, and we could dance together and have fun... I particularly like the dancing thought! Through blogging, some of these "Ethereal Edith" dreams are being fulfilled.

As the bubble is bursting, there is one thing I know for certain: My free-will must be compared to a living, breathing, spirited animal with its own quirky, complicated gait. This filly needs a caring Groomer, a guiding Rider, and a patient and understanding Trainer.

Another thing for which I am grateful: My bubbly grandson.

On Wednesday, 12-12-12, I will share another news item as we round the track. In later December posts, I plan to weave in tidbits of ideas from the article that prompted my 2-month, consuming, free-fall blog. Thanks so much to anyone in the blogosphere who might be reading... Deo Volente.