Independence Day

This month, when we celebrate our country's independence and revel in our freedoms, I find myself pondering what being independent means to me and when I finally experienced a sense of “freedom” from the legacy of my childhood. Specifically, I’m wondering how free I really am from the havoc of the past.

Outwardly, I’ve been independent my whole life – strong-willed, focused, directed toward achievement, and always moving toward making things bigger, better, and more evolved. This has served me well…and it is also exhausting. It’s making me think about what true independence, for me, would look like.

When I was in my late 20s after my mother had passed away, I took a big step toward emotional and psychological independence when I asked my stepfather to no longer be a part of my life. I wrote about this in Chapter 11 of Wreckage, in an essay called “Love, Death, and a T-Bucket Roadster.”

Here’s what I said:

“A couple of years after Mom’s death…I cut my stepfather loose. It happened when he took one step too many toward an invisible boundary in my mind. This is the line that, when crossed, causes a ‘You’re dead to me” reaction in me. I can’t say I’m proud of that aspect of my personality, but it fits. There are actions, words, and mindsets that aren’t recoverable from; some relationships need to end.”

I thought I had ended that relationship with Jerry right then; we never spoke to each other after that phone call, when I – politely, I might add – asked him to step out of my life and not contact me again. I wished him well but told him I didn’t think it served either of us to continue communicating. It was too hurtful and painful for both of us. He honored my wishes, although on several family occasions when we would end up in the same place, he would “linger” on the sidelines, hoping (I think) I would renege on my request.

As I’ve gone through life, though, it seems I discover – over and over – that ending the relationship didn’t end its impact on me. In fact, just last night I had yet another upsetting dream about him and woke up feeling the same sort of trauma I did when I was in my teens. I feel angry that, after years of therapy and introspection, he still has a hold over me. Yes – I’m physically independent from him (he’s been dead for decades now!) but his legacy continues to influence who I am, how I feel, and the ways I react.

On some level, I know this may always be the case. I may carry some part of Jerry with me for the rest of my life. This makes me sad and angry. But when I can really stop and feel the remaining vestiges of his abuse, I can also feel compassion for myself. When I can feel compassion for myself, I can extend that to others. When I feel compassion and empathy for others, I’m a better person. The world is a slightly better place (I hope!).

In these moments, I can almost – just almost – be grateful for the awful parts of the past. Sometimes, I can see how they have helped me become who I am.

Sometimes.