And for my second act . . .

threesistersThroughout my early childhood when going places with my two older sisters they would often get asked “Who’s your friend?” (referring to me).  They were brunette and brown-eyed like my mother.  I in turn was light-haired and blue eyed like my father (or nobody we knew) and often mistaken for an outsider.  Two brothers later, both brown/brown & olive-skinned like my sisters, the die was cast:  Freckleface here was an outsider.  After eight years a little blonde-haired, blue-eyed sister came (from praying, is where babies came from) but it was too late, I was forever to feel like an interloper.  Besides, this little sister of mine was always darkening her hair.  What the fuck?  I wanted us to look like twins!

This constant comparison with my older sisters came to be internalized.  I idolized them and was asked “Why can’t you be more younameitfillintheblankwewerefuckingCatholicitwasafreeforall like your sister?”  Holy Hallelujah I continue that shit to this day.  Nowadays Seniordoodle is a very successful coach and high school teacher, and Snickerdoodle is equally successful in Medical Social Work.  They have never seen an ounce of cellulite in their lives.  They have stellar credit scores.  They have unimpeachable mental health.  I, on the other hand, vacillate between somewhat slim and gorgeous, and rotund and totally frustrated.  I have a credit score of zero.  For reals!  I’ve been somewhat successful but in general pretty stuck career-wise, because of all the starts and stops that are inherent to the bipolar illness.  Not to mention the fact that I hate what I do.  That’s just the whole working in Corporate America killing my soul but I digress….    What must my sisters, hell any of my siblings think of me, I sometimes wonder?  In my worst times I fear that they pity me.  That will send me off the deep end.  Don’t let them pity me.

My question for myself is, beneath the outer appearance and the trappings of success, Who the fuck am I?  And where the fuck am I going for the next half of my life?  Can I make my outsides match my insides a little better for the second half of the trip?  Can I pursue a dream or two?  Is there any honoring of the self in my future?  Is there light at the end of the tunnel?  If so, it’s not a freight train, is it?

2 thoughts on “And for my second act . . .

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