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favoritebean_writes) wrote2024-07-23 03:22 pm
favoritebean_writes) wrote2024-07-23 03:22 pm
Entry tags:
July 2024
A couple of weeks ago, I stumbled across an urgent post on social media asking for prayers for my aunt’s eldest brother. He was in the hospital, she said, and very ill. Never mind that she left him to the state of Idaho, claiming him invalid, unable to care for himself. He was made a ward of the state as a result. Never mind that his other siblings, once afraid of the terror he drove into their hearts, decided to have nothing to do with him. His children all absolved themselves of responsibility for the man who deigned to shun and threaten and not pay a cent for support.
My reaction to my aunt was not particularly kind. “I’m his eldest child, and no one ever tells me anything!” Only one other responded, another aunt, who claimed that she was praying, and oh poor old man. I refrained from saying we were all fine without him, and they all knew it, but I felt firm in my private thoughts.
My mom offered to bake a cake for a celebration once he finally kicked the bucket, assuming my relatives weren’t being dramatic to the tune of hyperbole again. I said that a cake sounded lovely.
Nothing was said of my biological father on social again after that, but I can assume that he recovered, and continued his status as a typical deadbeat dad, ignoring all his children. Aunts and uncles have remained quiet, so perhaps this was a false alarm. Disconnecting from that is difficult, however. It’s very easy to let the brain weasels in when one of your parents turns out to be a bad human being. It’s easy to let the traditions of being deferential to your elders prevail at the expense of your own wellness.
My response to the possibility of my father’s demise was to take a gig in Hollywood that was up for grabs. Distraction can be the best medicine, and distraction through work is even better. I had a little over a week to learn the music and would get to rehearse it with fifteen other amazing musicians once, before we performed it in public. Learning music on short notice for a gig is normal in my line of work. It’s great for repertoire building, focus, and it can be thrilling, if not distracting from the brain weasels. This music performance was avant-garde classical, the music of choice for LA classical in the 2020’s. Classical meets esoteric. Nearly always a cappella and requires a whole lot of self-confidence and practice to hold your own.
I have learned to hold my own in my job, even when I’m sure I’ll fail. Every time, it’s like going sky diving and wondering if I packed the parachute correctly. Yes, it’s packed correctly, but self-doubt is always there. Despite years of honing my abilities in my craft, it’s moments when my biological father’s presence is invoked that I find my confidence crumbles. My sense of self-worth is always on the precipice of dissolving to nothing, because if my father couldn’t bother to send a letter or provide court mandated support, then obviously I am not worth anything. When I reached my twenties, my aunts and uncles came to peek at my work as if I were a curiosity. Suddenly, the hours and years of study and staying home on weekends were on display, because I was talented, by golly, and wow, your father really is lucky to have a daughter like you! I’m sure he doesn’t care though.
It’s OUR NIECE the pianist! OUR NIECE, who is kind, and talented. Our niece, who seems kind of aloof for some reason, I wonder why?
By the time I walk into rehearsal Friday night, I’m receiving hugs from musicians I’ve not seen for a few months. “It’s great to see you! I’m glad we get to work together again,” we said to each other. And by the end of rehearsal, and again Saturday after our performance, I believed their words. It’s a lot of work psyching myself up to believe people when they tell me they’re glad I’m here.
At home, I’m constantly needing reassurance that it’s okay that I’m a spouse and a parent, and that I’m not terrible at either. My mother and step-father tell me that I’m the model child, viewing my adolescence with a rosier perspective than my first year of life before my mother and father divorced.
Yet the actions of those early months of life have a lasting effect on who I am. That need for reassurance is one thing. I probably need a therapist, but right now isn’t the time as I’m getting ready for another set of rehearsals next week. There’s a lot of music to learn, and learning new music on a time crunch is therapeutic.
Even if I have a fear of committing to therapy (I’ve been mistreated by therapists before), and a once major fear of becoming a spouse and parent (what if I’m like him), I know that he will never touch me in my field of expertise. Our paths diverged decades ago, and for better or for worse, musicianship is my refuge. I can’t trust him to do a good job as a parent, or be a decent human, and I will always doubt myself too. I can’t always trust that my work will be perfect, or that I’ll be the best person, but I can trust the metronome to give the beat where it needs to be, and I can trust that the downbeat will be where it needs to be. I just need to show up.
For my own peers this performance cycle, everyone was gracious and kind to each other throughout rehearsals and the performance. As a result, our audience was genuinely happy to experience the joy we brought to the event. The brain weasels stayed home, and I was relieved for the respite.
After the show, it was nice to hear, “See you at rehearsal in a few weeks. I’m excited, are you?” from everyone, including those I’d just met the night before. It was thrilling to be on stage with friends I hadn’t seen since 2019, and to know that strangers and friends alike, we could trust each other to make amazing music.
Dear Father, while you’re living with regrets in Idaho, I am doing fine without you. I know you didn’t ask, but I’m setting the record straight. You may have cracked my edges a little, but my core is still there. You didn’t believe in me, but luckily, I don’t need your faith anymore.
My reaction to my aunt was not particularly kind. “I’m his eldest child, and no one ever tells me anything!” Only one other responded, another aunt, who claimed that she was praying, and oh poor old man. I refrained from saying we were all fine without him, and they all knew it, but I felt firm in my private thoughts.
My mom offered to bake a cake for a celebration once he finally kicked the bucket, assuming my relatives weren’t being dramatic to the tune of hyperbole again. I said that a cake sounded lovely.
Nothing was said of my biological father on social again after that, but I can assume that he recovered, and continued his status as a typical deadbeat dad, ignoring all his children. Aunts and uncles have remained quiet, so perhaps this was a false alarm. Disconnecting from that is difficult, however. It’s very easy to let the brain weasels in when one of your parents turns out to be a bad human being. It’s easy to let the traditions of being deferential to your elders prevail at the expense of your own wellness.
My response to the possibility of my father’s demise was to take a gig in Hollywood that was up for grabs. Distraction can be the best medicine, and distraction through work is even better. I had a little over a week to learn the music and would get to rehearse it with fifteen other amazing musicians once, before we performed it in public. Learning music on short notice for a gig is normal in my line of work. It’s great for repertoire building, focus, and it can be thrilling, if not distracting from the brain weasels. This music performance was avant-garde classical, the music of choice for LA classical in the 2020’s. Classical meets esoteric. Nearly always a cappella and requires a whole lot of self-confidence and practice to hold your own.
I have learned to hold my own in my job, even when I’m sure I’ll fail. Every time, it’s like going sky diving and wondering if I packed the parachute correctly. Yes, it’s packed correctly, but self-doubt is always there. Despite years of honing my abilities in my craft, it’s moments when my biological father’s presence is invoked that I find my confidence crumbles. My sense of self-worth is always on the precipice of dissolving to nothing, because if my father couldn’t bother to send a letter or provide court mandated support, then obviously I am not worth anything. When I reached my twenties, my aunts and uncles came to peek at my work as if I were a curiosity. Suddenly, the hours and years of study and staying home on weekends were on display, because I was talented, by golly, and wow, your father really is lucky to have a daughter like you! I’m sure he doesn’t care though.
It’s OUR NIECE the pianist! OUR NIECE, who is kind, and talented. Our niece, who seems kind of aloof for some reason, I wonder why?
By the time I walk into rehearsal Friday night, I’m receiving hugs from musicians I’ve not seen for a few months. “It’s great to see you! I’m glad we get to work together again,” we said to each other. And by the end of rehearsal, and again Saturday after our performance, I believed their words. It’s a lot of work psyching myself up to believe people when they tell me they’re glad I’m here.
At home, I’m constantly needing reassurance that it’s okay that I’m a spouse and a parent, and that I’m not terrible at either. My mother and step-father tell me that I’m the model child, viewing my adolescence with a rosier perspective than my first year of life before my mother and father divorced.
Yet the actions of those early months of life have a lasting effect on who I am. That need for reassurance is one thing. I probably need a therapist, but right now isn’t the time as I’m getting ready for another set of rehearsals next week. There’s a lot of music to learn, and learning new music on a time crunch is therapeutic.
Even if I have a fear of committing to therapy (I’ve been mistreated by therapists before), and a once major fear of becoming a spouse and parent (what if I’m like him), I know that he will never touch me in my field of expertise. Our paths diverged decades ago, and for better or for worse, musicianship is my refuge. I can’t trust him to do a good job as a parent, or be a decent human, and I will always doubt myself too. I can’t always trust that my work will be perfect, or that I’ll be the best person, but I can trust the metronome to give the beat where it needs to be, and I can trust that the downbeat will be where it needs to be. I just need to show up.
For my own peers this performance cycle, everyone was gracious and kind to each other throughout rehearsals and the performance. As a result, our audience was genuinely happy to experience the joy we brought to the event. The brain weasels stayed home, and I was relieved for the respite.
After the show, it was nice to hear, “See you at rehearsal in a few weeks. I’m excited, are you?” from everyone, including those I’d just met the night before. It was thrilling to be on stage with friends I hadn’t seen since 2019, and to know that strangers and friends alike, we could trust each other to make amazing music.
Dear Father, while you’re living with regrets in Idaho, I am doing fine without you. I know you didn’t ask, but I’m setting the record straight. You may have cracked my edges a little, but my core is still there. You didn’t believe in me, but luckily, I don’t need your faith anymore.
no subject
Good stuff here