Missed Connections

From my earliest consciousness, I felt a pervasive sense of my otherness. In a large, tumultuous family, I was the one who longed for quiet; who spent inordinate amounts of time sitting in the meadow musing; who escaped into books.  I learned early to keep my inner self private; that, if I could manage to avoid any outward indication of my strangeness, life would be easier.  This served me well for about 50 years, until in post-menopausal surrender, I decided to dip my toe in the water of letting my freak flag fly. All was well until about five years ago, when my otherness, almost overnight, became a flashing neon sign. I was suddenly the sole caretaker and advocate for a child with an “invisible illness”, I was leaving my marriage after 25 years, and I was leaving the suburbs for a town 1000 miles away.

Because I’m basically an optimist who actively seeks out silver linings (at times stopping just short of channeling Pollyanna), there is one aspect of this journey that I’ve been reluctant to share (hell, to even acknowledge): being “other” has tested every one of my relationships. And some have failed, miserably. There has been plenty of grief and mourning and a major effort to veer away from bitterness. And, as with all difficult treks, valuable lessons abound.

I realize now what a challenge I presented for family and friends living a “normal” life. Some people had no clue what to say, and just disappeared. Others had no shortage of opinions (I should stay in my marriage no matter what, my daughter’s illness must be all in her head, I should live in a gated community rather than a beach town) and shared them either directly or behind my back (note: if you’re going to gossip, plan on it getting back to the subject). Others still, attempting to “help”, added further stress and became offended at my rejection of their efforts (blind dates, fancy dinners, fad diets) to “fix” things.

Initially, the demands of our new life turned me into a triage nurse moonlighting as a paralegal. I was unable to explain myself or our reality. As we slogged on, we seemed to become entrenched in our otherness: our early inability to accept most invitations eventually stopped the invitations. My daughter’s battle with depression and anxiety made it more difficult for her to navigate a life where her dreams were falling like dominoes, and many friends and family members abandoned her. When her condition had improved enough that I could leave her, I was often excluded from social events as I was unpartnered.

We became isolated and hurt and no doubt grew a bit of a chip on our shoulders. I tried to address the most hurtful incidents directly and honestly. Sometimes it worked; often it didn’t. We were becoming experts at letting go (of dreams, expectations, convention), and we eventually accepted that we would have to let go of certain relationships, or at least redraw some boundaries.

Meanwhile, we were learning about the miraculous kindness of strangers and others who had previously played a minor part in our lives. These connections have been crucial in fostering our healing and growth and in preventing us from equating our otherness with unworthiness. They have been our salvation.

Do I still mourn some of these damaged relationships? You bet. Will I apologize for my otherness or my frankness or the way I’ve chosen to live my life?  Nope. Not even a little. But I’m here if you’re up for a brutally honest conversation.