What Shapes Us All

Lately, I've plunked down before the computer and stare. I feel if I entertain you with fits of laughter, you'll come back. I think if I can connect to you on a comedic level, you'll like me and tell your friends. You may think I can't write a serious sentence without goofing off. In contrast, I'm more afraid if I write seriously, most of you will leave wanting to put a gun barrel in your mouth.

I have this intrinsic need to be validated. When everyone and their dog was doing the love languages book by Gary Chapman, I scored big on validation/affirmation. Not surprising, I guess. I already know I'm a people pleaser and need people to like me for me. I get scared when I show who I am that I'll be rejected. What to do when people don't like me? I'll do my darndest to win them over. I know, I know, it's one of those juvenile statements that people think, but don't say outloud. Well, I'm saying it.

I'm sure this validation is a throwback to my childhood stint in foster homes and the abandonment issues they caused. Whatever. I think it might be deeper, like the fact that I watched too many Wonder Woman cartoons and my parents made me eat all my lima beans. Regardless of the reason, it's part of who I am.

I don't write about my every day because it bores the bajingo out of me. In fact, keeping to more silly and humorous writing is easy, but also a crutch for me. I may not be the most composed in thought, nor could I point to Kazakhstan on a world map. (somewhere near the other "-stans" in the Middle East) I could however, drone on like the rest of them when I tell you what I care about and makes me tick. HPV. Partial birth abortions. Dead beat Dads. People who communicate like a 2nd grader. The perfect lasagna recipe.

I think back to the days of foster care. My mother, a schizophrenic, who couldn't properly care for us four girls when my father was involved in a traumatic motorcycle accident. The accident left him with a severely broken leg and left us girls in foster care.

I don't remember much of that time, being 3 years old. Yet, I have a few flashbacks. One in particular was finding myself in a cold room with sparce furnishings. It was bedtime. I can only assume it was in the home of a foster family. I sat up in the dimly lit room; the hall light visible only through the slit in the bedroom door that was left ajar. I looked out the window and hated not knowing what was going on. There alone on my bed, I watched the rain come down with every drop silhouetted by the lone street lamp below. I remember thinking how much I didn't want to be there. I wanted to cry, scream, punch..anything to make things different. I didn't want to be alive. I clearly felt I wanted to leave the earth because I felt so unimportant. At 3 years old, I wanted to die.

I am a deep thinker. Most probably darker than most only because of where I've come from and managed to push through in life. I am a worrier by nature, control freak, over-thinker, and idealist, but also one who can wrap my brain around anything logical or emotional. I often have my brain going 100 miles faster than where I am at. I'd pause to answer in grade school, and they thought me a dunce. As an adult, I've suffered in jobs and relationships because I'm honest in how I speak and don't imply or take hints. The older I get the more I hone the art of speaking my mind diplomatically. That's the key.

I look back at my childhood and know how it shaped the person who I am. They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger....or is it that it gives you something good to blog about? I'd say those darker days give me something good to blog about because it's forced me to look at the bright side (humorous side) of anything life throws at me. Like laughing hysterically at the news that the Anti-Christ has a $2200 repair.

Sure, I have my days, just like anyone. But if you wonder why I like to make fun of even the worst of what comes my way, know that it's because I won't let the worst kill me.

I don't know if this is a right way to be. Coping mechanism, denial or insanity...whatever you want to label it...it's my way. If you find that idea dysfunctional or 'wrong', do tell me about your 3 year old wish to die and your schizophrenic mother. I'm all ears and ready to wear your shoes. In the meantime, I might find something for you to laugh about. I've found that indeed, laughter IS the best medicine.

~Bee gets philosophical on her daily walks.
Listening to: Well Enough Alone by Chevelle