Talk Thursday: Aftermath

It's odd how much of a familial influence there is in behavior. In my family, women DON'T freak out in times of crisis. You stoically do what needs to be done. When the storm has passed, you lock yourself in your room and bawl your eyes out. This isn't something that is taught, all I can guess is that it's a learned behavior, though my grandmother says that Reynolds women have to be strong. I don't think I've ever seen her cry. (She's not cold and heartless or anything, she's just the strongest woman I've ever met.)

To be fair, my mom is only about a quarter Reynolds. (Right? I mean grandma would be half Reynolds, cuz her Dad was a Reynolds..... but g-grandma was a Shonehart ... I don't know how to spell it..) So I am a waaaaaay watered down Reynolds. (Where's that inbreeding when you need it.) Maybe the Wilcox's are criers. Maybe I got mutated genes. Not that I'm a puss, I just don't hold it together so well anymore.

My induction into death practices began when I was in about the 3rd grade. My Papa died. I remember trying sooooo hard not to cry, because my mom was trying not to cry. And I know my mom was keeping it together for me. In turn, I knew that she was upset and didn't need to worry about how I was dealing with it as well. So I did as Reynolds do, and I sucked it up, pushed it down, and dealt with it later.

Did I mention I have faulty genes? These days, I'm fine if I don't talk about it. I save my crying for the shower. If I talk about it, all bets are off. I am a sentimental, emotional fool. Though rumor has it, great-grandma Reynolds had a little friend called diazepam. Can you say Valium? I might be more stoic if Pam Diaz were my friend; in fact, I'm quite certain I'd burst into song more frequently, as well!

When pondering the topic "Aftermath" all that I kept thinking about was how the aftermath of crisis stays with me for so incredibly long. When the fire's doused and the smoke clears, the smell of char seems to waft through my life years, even decades later. Charmin died 20 years ago and I still cry about her. A few weeks ago, I was completely dumbfounded when I started bawling over my first stepdad. He left 20 years ago, as well, and those two things are very intertwined, but it was shocking how fresh the betrayal felt. I feel that I should be over it, but I suppose there are certain aspects I've never dealt with. He took my grandma with him. That pisses me off. Yes, she's a grown ass woman and she makes her own choices, but I understand her predicament as well. I can't tell you how many times I've thought of taking him on Jerry Springer or something and really telling him how I feel. But the flip side of that is the fear that he wouldn't care. It pisses me off that I still cry about that son of a bitch. I know he doesn't deserve my tears. Knowing doesn't make them go away.

I would love the chance to tell him how negatively he's impacted my life. I'm afraid to truly love because I can't trust men. I am terrified of letting men into my son's life because I can't let this happen to him. And I would love to tell him that Ducky is ten times the man he could ever be. The one thing I learned from him is how to walk away and never look back. Kudos to you!

My mom raised me that hate is a bad, evil thing. But it is so easy to hate. Unfortunately, I hate him as fiercely as I love my mother and son. He doesn't deserve that much emotion from me.