I’ve been in an odd mood of late; I think it’s the spending-lots-of-time-alone (relatively speaking) doing lots of non-thought-requiring tasks. Sanding/painting are hardly higher level thought process jobs. Well, I guess at a higher quality standard that I’m aiming for they might be, but at my level of ‘get the paint on, polish it later’ they’re not.
Anyhow, so much time for ponderence, and I suppose the fact that we should (theoretically at least) be in the throws of packing up for Canada, selling the house, and moving on with life leads me back to contemplation of where I am now, where (I/we) are going from now, and perhaps most difficult, where I came from.
I allude to it lots, and am unlikely to make it clear on this blog what happened in my past. No abuse*, thankfully. People have had it far worse than me. People I know and have known have had far, far worse experiences than me. But that doesn’t erase the effect of my history on me. And the difficulty I have in forgiving myself for ‘wasting’ the first 17 years of my life. Only as I turned 18 did I start to discard the person I’d hidden myself in.
And while, logically, I know that I didn’t have a choice. Not realistically. The world as it is now, is not the way it was then. And the bullying I got, the taunts, the queer remarks I got at school; the exclusion; all of it. All of it would have been far worse had I tried to be out earlier.
Certainly I regret that the first time at University I didn’t have the understanding of myself, or of my friends (who rock) to out myself. Because I regret those years of pain and hiding too. But at least I allowed myself to more-or-less be me. Socially stunted and broken as I was, I at least could grow into a real person with people who were bloody nice to put up with the person I was then.
But all that doesn’t erase the wish that I could have, and the vivid imaginings of if it had all gone right. Time’s erased some/a lot of the pain from school. I still find it really hard to talk about it – about how scared I was – when parents let their kids try and push you off your bike from a moving car, that suddenly makes adults not safe either and trust becomes a real issue. It’s hard. And it’s funny, ‘cos it’s normally left lurking under a nice happy safe Kate.
But sometimes, unexpectedly I find myself contemplating it, and, well, it’s not easy. But I think it’s good, in a way. I’ve been debating writing it all down. Again. Properly. Someone suggested I should write a book; once; based on a very old blog (now long gone). I contemplate it, on and off, not because I think it’d sell, but because I think it’d be carthartic.
Anyhow, I’m going to go and get a cuddle.
* Not in my childhood anyhow.
