About Yesterday's Post

So what was that all about, you may be wondering.

Quite some time ago, I stumbled through a wave going over the blog world: writing a letter to your younger self, giving advice and encouragement to that person back then, knowing what you know now. I considered writing that, but I had no idea what I would tell myself. In some ways, I'm still that person, and I think I need my 70-year-old self to write me a letter.

But this weekend I found the Perfect Post Awards. If you want something good to read, go there. There are links to dozens of "perfect" posts, chosen every month since February 2006. It's like the cream of the bloggy crop.

There are stories like this one, and this one, and this one, and this one, and this one, and even this one.

But the one that got me really thinking was this one. In particular, this paragraph:

He wants answers to why I’m so angry but it isn’t anger I’m feeling but resolve. I don’t want to do this anymore. How many times do we have to do this before we get it right? I have a feeling that it’s never. That is why I have to stop. It is unfair to my own family and much too difficult to be a good wife and mother from the depths of a black hole.

I could identify with this woman's assessment of having to distance herself from her family. Even though I didn't experience the levels of abuse that she did,  it was enough. My parents were not malicious, just mostly immature and wounded. There have been things I needed to forgive, things to learn about forgiveness (which may be a topic for a future post), but there did come a time when I realized I had to make a break from my parents. 

I had help. I married a man from a different state, and he carried me off into the sunset (literally). Fortunately, with my parents, out of sight is out of mind, and as long as I stayed out of their lives physically, they left me alone. It was a different story when I went back for a visit. The moment I showed up-- actually, the minute I told them I was coming-- the emotional entanglement started to strangle me. Hubby will tell you that for the first several years of our marriage I sobbed wrenchingly most of the four hour drive home.

All that to say this: after reading that post, suddenly, I knew just what my 17-year-old self needed to hear. And for some reason, it has been very encouraging to my 45-year-old self, as if I've gone back in time and knitted up a lost stitch.

And that's what that was all about.