I'm A Winner

Yesterday I found out I won Go! Smell the Flowers monthly contest. Each month they ask a question and their favorite answer wins flowers sent to anywhere internationally. This week, the question was, “What does your dream day consist of?”

My dream day was, “One where I wouldn’t worry about anything, I could live the 24 hours without judgment from myself or others, or worry about what other people were thinking in regard to my actions.

I’d love a day where I could just walk, no stress (physical or emotional) and just take in the beauty around me - whether I walk in the city or country. A day where everyone was kind to each other, and showed the common courtesies that are rare these days.”

Now, this was, to me, completely self-serving. I’m on a worry high as of late, can’t even see a smile without wondering what the ulterior motive is behind it. I’m sick of the worry and doubt.

What’s funny is I’m not self-conscious when outside talking with friends. I was at the park the other day when I ran into a neighbor/friend of mine, and her gentleman friend. She and I always joke around about things, sometimes going into the absurd. While the three of us were chatting my bra decided to come undone. But, rather than be embarrassed, I just started singing, “Do your ears hang low, do they wobble two and fro. . .” as I reached behind me to snap it back together. She was laughing, I didn’t really care, and when her male friend realized what was going on, he blushed and turned around (no, I didn’t show anything).

Which is why I’m amazed that every other little thing has been bugging me lately, having me worry, wonder, doubt peoples actions, even doubt my own actions.

After I put in my entry for the contest, I realized I actually did want to win the flowers. I mentioned the letter that I received from my grandmother. Since then I have written her back, she sent me a card, and my aunt left a message on my answering machine. I thought it would be wonderful if I won those flowers to send to them.

See, I’ve been talking about this in my therapy sessions. I don’t know how to go forward with my grandmother and aunt. It sounds silly, but there is a lot of my mom’s voice that pops up. In fact, my therapist asked if I realized that after every story I told of my grandmother there was one about my mom’s views on them.

My mother told me my aunt hated me. That because her daughter died she couldn’t look at me without being jealous and never wanted to see me. I asked my aunt about that after I graduated from college. She said that yes, her daughter died at age 3 days, but she never hated me for living. “I’ve always loved you,” she told me.

My mother told me my grandmother and aunt were stupid, were uneducated, weren’t worth our time. She laughed at my aunt when she got promoted at work (my aunt is a butcher) and had us, as children, laugh with her. “I can’t believe your aunt actually said that happiness is a 10 feet meat counter!” she cackled, having us join in on what she deemed small dreams. But, my aunt had what my mother couldn’t, a stable job she took pride in. Who cares what you do if you enjoy doing it?

My mother mocked the fact that my aunt still lived with her parents. That even when married, her husband moved in with them. That her son lives there, and when he married, his wife moved in to the house. As I grew up I realized how that was the type of family I wanted, one that wanted to stay together, one you could lean upon. She had me believing it was unnatural or incestuous to stay at home (while she implored my brother to never leave, which he didn’t until he was married) when you have a job, a career, a person to love. But the natural order seems to support one another, to be able to hold each other up, especially when it is economically advantageous to live together. They own the house everyone lives in, and always have. We lived in cars and a garage and Section 8 housing.

Right now, I don’t feel comfortable returning the phone call to my aunt and grandma. I don’t know why, I just feel so sad about it. I do remember our last phone calls, a few years ago, where it was awkward pauses and apologizes. Part of me just keeps hearing my mom’s voice and worries that I’ll repeat it, that despite talking to them about what was said I’ll slip into her way of thinking, of thinking that they are beneath me even though they are the family that loves me, something I have been seeking for a long time.

Another part worries that she was right, that they will just betray me at some point, that they don’t really care. Intellectually, I don’t believe that to be true, but emotionally, I don’t know if I can handle any more ‘family secrets’ being put on my shoulders. I want a hug, not a burden of history.

So while I may not be able to call them right now, I’m working on it. And I’m grateful I can send them some flowers and let them know I’m trying. I may not be able to say it yet, but I can write it out and, as the ad says, ‘say it with flowers.’

(The picture above is one I took after sharpening a lip pencil. I thought it looked like a rosebud.)