Today’s post is specifically to my family. Meaning the family that I grew up with. You know the one you don’t get to pick?

Thank you for visiting me here at Best of Mother Earth

For those of you who are not my family you might want to know that once upon a time I had a family. Currently they are a disconnected cast of characters from my past. My family is not in my life today. They have not been for some time. Some for over a decade have been a missing.

I think it’s just wild that they have found my blog, and me — don’t you?

I received an email from my second ex-husband yesterday. He got a call from my mom. It’s been years. In the call she apparently first said to him – I always liked you. (That’s kind of funny because she always told me she couldn’t stand him)

She called to complain to him about my blog. (Gee – he and I are divorced. The man isn’t even reading my blog)

I guess she, my father, and my two sisters are now reading my blog. 

They apparently don’t appreciate what I have to say.

I hope that if my past family has something to say that perhaps they could consider saying it to me.

I’d welcome that.

The Right to Write.

I truly treasure my freedom of expression.

In high school I had a teacher who asked us to keep a journal. I loved writing in it, as my life was a tad intense. My journal brought to me a safe and sacred place to explore how I was feeling and why. I always felt better after I wrote. It was a total blather of normal teenage angst mixed in with details about me discovering my sexuality. I wrote every little detail in my journal. I struggled then with my relationship with my dad. He treated me very differently after puberty and I began to hate him. I wrote about that too.

What I didn’t realize was my mom was reading my journal. She told me dad about what she read. He said he wanted to read it and she hid it from him. They played this game for some time. He eventually found it – read it, as did my younger sister who I shared a room with. All with out my knowledge. (wow so much for respectful privacy)

When my parents finally told me they read my journal, they spoke of it in the context that “something is wrong with you Karen and you need help”. At the age of 16 I started seeing my mom’s psychologist – Dr Bob. What I gained from a year of his services and friendship was a tremendous sense of self worth. He helped me see the world with great clarity. There was nothing wrong with my view he said. I felt so tremendously confident when I was with him. At that time no other place in my world felt that way. Unfortunately it was only an inkling of confidence, because my father stopped my sessions after accusing me of sleeping with the Dr. (Pretty degrading huh?)

My parents forbade me to journal. I didn’t write again until 1995 when I began to affirm my goals for work. 20 years later. (Twenty years!) I took the voice I had found in my nutritional work and brought it to print. I was prized in the field (others asked to borrow my materials. What a compliment!) My clients were extremely responsive. I was very successful with the written word.

In 1997 I was introduced to Julia Cameron’s books– a book in particular called the Right to Write and tasks like morning pages, collaging and other self- exploration mediums were part of her teachings. They have been a staple in my life ever since.

My blog is my newest modality of creativity writing. It pulled me through my recent and second divorce. It was a distraction. A way to rebuild. I was devastated by the loss of this man in my life.  It became a sounding board of what was in my head and my heart. It’s now become an expression of all things me. The fabric of which often reminds me fondly (or sometimes not so fondly) of my growing up. It’s public, it’s personal (sometimes it’s raw) and the rawness, I am told, is why my blog is so loved.

I have often been told I wear my life on my sleeve, some say that in a negative way. When I “let it all hang out” I get the most amazing responses and comments. What I say touches others. I find this remarkable and very rewarding.

My goal is connection. Simply stated. This is why I write and this is why I blog.

My past family is reading my blog. Isn’t that just wildest thing?

History unfolds…

My parents are from Canada. They divorced in 1978

My dad, John is a retired airline pilot. He disowned me in 1983 – that’s 25 years ago.

I reached out to him in 1997 – my one sister warned him of my pending call

(The evil eldest child is planning to call – supportive huh?)

The first call, when I heard his voice – I got scared. All he kept saying is what do you want? The tone of his voice was emotional. Frantic actually, I couldn’t speak – I started to cry.

The second call moments later, when I felt I had it together as to share why I had even called in the first place, he pulled the phone off the wall once he heard my voice. That was 11 years ago

My sisters Michele (graphic designer, dog owner) and Lisa (divorced mother of 2) and I lost touch  when my father’s mother Gertrude died. I was going through my first divorce so I would say it was maybe 1995. My dad didn’t attend his own mother’s funeral. (I so don’t get that) He told my sisters he wished they didn’t attend either. I emphatically asked them if they had a mind of their own. (This is our grandmother for gosh sakes!) Apparently they didn’t appreciate me saying that. We never had an official I am not your sister any more conversation, they just seemed to disappear. We had history – lots of things that occurred along the way to have it be easy for them to just walk. When my dad disowned me, I asked my sisters why, they told me I got what I deserved. My sense is they never liked me very much. To this day I don’t know why. Why would they say that to me? That was 13 yrs ago

My mother, Raymonde – was mostly a homemaker. I let her go from my life – my choice – about 6 years ago. Something happened (doesn’t something always happen?) she got mad, it all was my fault she said – mostly it was a misunderstanding (isn’t it always?) In my making amends I asked if we could talk about things – things I had questions about, things I wanted to know – things. I so just wanted to talk. She said no. Why bother? I said because it’s important to me. I then got the commentary about all the things wrong with me. A long recitation, only a mother could give. I was in my 40’s and she still felt it was ok to verbally beat me to a pulp. I decided in that very conversation I’m done. I just didn’t see the point anymore.

I also have an adorable baby brother Jeff – he lived with my mom. They had a wonderful co-dependant life together – he had a history of addiction and my father disowned him too.

Is it a common family practice to disown one’s own children? My father dismissed two of us. Not worthy.

Our family paths since would cross in odd ways. I saw a picture of my dad once and he looked like death – I heard he was ill.

An aunt had pictures of my sisters from visits – the images of which are most recent in my head.

My mom in recent years left where we grew up and where my dad brought her in 1965 and moved further south – down state.To this day my mom claims she sent a change of address to me. Nice gesture perhaps but I never got it. My aunt told me she moved. Did she take my brother with her? I have no idea. Hearing about it had me wonder why there – why so far? It’s really far. I just don’t get it. (My aunt wouldn’t tell me) I often think about my family. How are they? WHO are they? Where are they? I miss them all tremendously. Do they ever wonder about me? I still send my mom a holiday greeting.

Family.

I decided very early on in my mind that something was different about our family. I found myself way more “at home” at other people’s houses. I could be myself. What I realized later is that I was taking mental notes and deciding what aspects of family I wanted for my own from other peoples homes. I always wanted to be a mom. I looked forward to creating home. Mine. Knowing that someday I could have it be different was very reassuring somehow. When I had my first child it seemed easier to understand all that my mom did while raising us. It certainly wasn’t easy. She had her own set of things to deal with; her husband was not true to her, he was often gone with his work, they both had a drinking problem, and my dad was not responsible fiscally. To credit my mom she was amazingly frugal. She made do and made well with what she had. My dad said to me post their divorce “I never should have had you kids” My past is riddled with that kind of commentary.

My belief now is that family is what you make it. The traditional mother father grandmother grandfather iconic family is not what I know. I have a rich family of friends and colleagues and raised my kids non-traditionally, mostly on my own. My parenting style was determined; you are loved, treasured and you can be and do anything you set your heart on – I will do all that I can to foster what’s remarkable about you. I adore my kids and have been blessed. Amazingly blessed by them in my life.

What do I say to the family from my past now?? If I said I loved them would it land in a way that they felt the meaning of it? I’d say probably not. What do I love about them? The memory? The idea of them? I don’t know. I love them – I just do.

Truth is I really don’t know them anymore and they have absolutely no idea who I am.

^{My Dad last celebrated my 23th birthday with me ( 2 weeks later he disowned me) He missed half my life – he never met my kids and probably never will. My one sister met my kids a few times (as I met hers – they are so adorable) Just those few visits.  No traditions were ever created in our world. (What would it have been like to rotate holidays or vacation together?) The other sister local at the time, immersed in our life for a short while and those were very treasured times – they remember her, my kids. They loved her. What they knew of my brother they simply adored and if they had ever met my dad they would see how much uncle Jeff looked just like his dad. My mom called my kids brats – the very two people I love more than anything in the whole world, she called brats. How do I get past how much that hurt me?}

The memories of my childhood brought me one part of my being. If not for this past I would not have the strength, courage and determination I have today.

They – my past family, molded my character – my gumption and my spirit.

What about the millions of amazing and wonderful positive memories that I have? Do those matter?

I have memories so clear of my sister Michele teasing me with her big fat feet (my Kate reminds me so much of my sister Michele – she has big feet too) Michele as I knew her was very smart, creative, sassy and pretty. She whistled with this hole on the side of her mouth that used to have us giggling so hard our sides hurt.

My sister Lisa’s would get this amusing little expression on her face when she would tell a silly joke. She was just darling, funny and someone I always wish I knew better.

My mother would dance around the dinner table, hard to describe in a post but it was positively amusing. I will never forget the infamous feast she made one summer day complete with dripping stove and all you can ever imagine homemade Mexican. She brought perfection to her crafts and was always up to something – I remember these sweet felt angels, the decoupage Kleenex box, unpainted furniture she would stain and or paint and these amazingly intricately cut shadow boxes. No one decorated a home the way my mom did. She was way ahead of her time. A creative, and something I think she fostered in all of us.

My dad’s amazing smile would fill up an entire room – he had such presence. I have been told I smile like a true Hanrahan – with every part of me. He was a character. I loved when he told stories, when he took us to sailing lessons or all the years we spent restoring our Model A – Martha. White bread toast with grape jelly at Howard Johnson’s. Yes!

My brother Jeff was a novelty. He was a boy and he was just so darn cute. He slept in his Levi’s, made sounds with his mouth when he played with his cars and trucks and had a teddy bear named goggie – which he gave me. I once took him on a road trip to Windsor – we had such a blast. He was just wonderful to be with. He brought the feeling of togetherness to my family. My son looks a bit like him. I bet they’d enjoy each other today.

These fond, and loving thoughts are among many that are in my heart and my memory. I have lots of them. Always will.

They are about a family I once had…once upon a time.

Racoon Family Flickr image credit

K a r e n     H a n r a h a n
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