Long – Lost

There is nothing that is more destructive than longing for something which you can never have.

There are so many things to long for.  I want a girlhood, I want connection, I want safety, I want intimacy, I want love.

But they all come down to one thing, I fear.

I want parents who see, understand and value me.

And that is never going to happen.

Sometimes, I feel like a motherless child.

Hell, who am I kidding?   I always feel like a motherless child.

“I told my Nana that I might be trans,” a seventeen year old said to me in the workshop I gave at queer camp.  “”You are beautiful as a woman, and you will be beautiful as a man,’ she told me.  ‘I will love you any way.'”

Not my experience of the world.

I am so lonely because the foundations I built my life on were fractured and fragile.

Sure it’s great that all the intellectual work I did to shore them up, all the bodging and patching and dutching left me with a useful structure to quickly understand and elucidate the human heart, but that doesn’t stop my life from being built on sand.

I know, I know, I know that being a wounded healer is powerful and good, that my wounds have opened up my eyes, offered me enlightenment and the ability to help others see and heal.

But that longing for foundational love haunts me.

I watch representations of families, from “Three Day Nanny” to “Stuck In Love,” and I know that no matter how much I tried to make my family work for the people around me, no matter how much I gave everything I had to make family, it never really worked for me.

It was my service that was understood and valued in the end, and even that went unrewarded when my sister dropped the ball.

“Please,” I begged when they told me I was to go to counselling at the age of twelve, “please help my parents first.”    Nobody was going to do that; it wasn’t the family that could be broken, it was me.   Target patient, I.

My parents are dead now, almost a year.  I did everything I could to take care of them, duty beyond valour according to professionals.

And I am still profoundly lonely in ways that leave me unable to be present in the moment.   Instead, the pain comes up inside and I run.

There is nothing that is more destructive than longing for something which you can never have.

Queer people, we have an injunction to create our own families, much like Mrs. Madrigal did in her house in SF.

Somehow, though, I felt how much my parents needed me, and I invested in a family that would never have someone like me as a member.   I didn’t build my own family, and that leaves me, well, crippled.

It’s not too late, it’s never too late, possibilities always exist if we shift our dreams with work, serenity and wisdom.

But it doesn’t feel that way to me.    That hollow place is weak and profound.

I can’t claim a future if I am always haunted by my past.  I can’t be in the moment if lost moments cripple me.

I have the wings to fly.  I grew them myself.  But the roots, well, they were always fragile, friable.

There is nothing that is more destructive than longing for something which you can never have.

No matter how much I feel the loneliness that comes from being a lost child when I should be standing proud and owning my own power.

And I have to let go of that dream, one piece at a time, to move forward.

A hollow voice says “plugh.”

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