A Convoluted Badge of Something

A Greek Tragedy for a Convolute?

ist2_1085349-snow-globeThe psychic looks at my left palm; the one which depicts where I have been, which bears little resemblance to my right palm, which is where I am, and am going.  He says, “Can I be frank?” I nod in an of course manner and consciously decline to utilize the obvious, “I thought your name was Henry?” joke, because I do not much ROFL over recycled humor. Cerebral humor is more my style; a mind-chuckle being more enjoyable than the mind [rhymes-with-part-of-the-word-chuck(le)] that was my childhood.

He says, “Your childhood was really convoluted.” Finally! The most succinct poetic ode to my childhood. A tidy one word summary. It is such the perfect word. I still have it. And it works. And, as long as we are being succint, if I had to sum myself up in one word I’d say I was an italic. And that my life has been in constant pursuit of the appropriate life-saving em dash. Maybe I am a Convolute.

I sometimes hesitantly suspect that I might be a dangling particle. But in reality, I am not entirely positive just what a dangling participle is and cannot immediately identify one. I mean I know, but I am not 100% certain, therefor I am one, because that would explain my confusion about who I am, in a metaphorically grammatical way.

ist2_5290011-who-s-that-manI think about such things all the time because I am very confused. I was raised by one family; I have another family now and I am getting to know them. But I wonder how much they are getting to know me. I don’t think either family really knows me. I think both families have tried to shape me. Why are we not all merely seen for who we are and not for what me might be? My bmom does not listen. I can hear her thinking of what she is going to say next rather than simply listening. Mostly in our conversations I just listen. I hear. I don’t really think much that she hears what I am saying but rather, hears what she wants. Hence The Guilt Trip.

I keep thinking of the whole journey as akin to the myth of Pandora’s Box, which was really a jar and only became known as a box due to a mistranslation of the Greek Pithos for “jar”, which became “box” when translated into Latin.  Pithos sounds like pathos, and is one of the three modes of persuasion, in Aristotle’s philosophies in rhetoric so it’s all Greek to me, and all tied together and convoluted.

ist2_3223613-entrance-hall-of-brussels-courthouseEvents of Pathos, or, Pathetic events, in a plot “are also not to be confused with tragic events. In a tragedy, the character brings about his or her own demise, whereas those invoking pathos often occur to innocent characters, invoking unmerited grief.” – wikipedia

Interesting, that jar/box thing – a mistranslation or mis-communication that changes the meaning of a thing forever. Pandora opened that jar out of curiosity and when she saw what was in it, she quickly closed it. In opening it she unleashed burden and evil, but ultimately what she unleashed became hope. A metaphor for the adoption search perhaps.

My way is tentative, my words are offerings and not avowals of fact. My thoughts, in sentence form, begin with “Perhaps” and end with question marks. I do not believe I am often right. I do not think in terms of being right or being wrong. I do not make abrupt judgments and say “that’s wrong” when people say things. Or, “Shut up!”, which seems a common (oh so common) term to express disbelief. That’s pretty pedestrian, I think.

ist2_6323180-being-different-a-wild-egg-among-regular-eggsThis is one of the ways in which my birth mother and I differ. I do not disagree, but rather offer up my viewpoint on a topic as if begging for consideration of a view that might be formed differently. I say, “Well, maybe…?”, or, “Could it be possible that…?”. Often I get “No!, that’s not it… take my word” in response. Then I change the subject.

That I do not instantly agree with her at all times on all things can elicit a stanza or two of contrariness. I do not mean to disagree. I often offer no opinion at all and distractedly murmur assent. I do a lot of listening and daydreaming. Maybe she is trying to teach me. Maybe, like my adoptive parents, she wishes to mold me. I am not moldable. I am also not firm, never rude or argumentative, and do not debate. I am mostly inquisitively middle or neutral ground. Somehow this is often annoying. But I do not believe I have all the facts and so I am not quick to judge and will still honor my own thoughts and observations in that meantime.  I change subjects a lot. Her husband has noticed this. He says, “I have noticed that when someone says something and you have a different opinion you will say, “Well, maybe it’s like this…?” and then if the person persists you will change the subject.

ist2_6056137-first-placeThey do not make a distinction between an opinion and a point of view. I often wonder if I should stop trying and just always agree. But then I’d not be me. Does she really just want me to always agree, to take her word over my own thoughts and observations without even pondering it? Does she not want to know the real me? Had I been raised by her would I have learned by now to just always agree? Would I also always be right? And then who would I be? How can you stop that from spilling into and somehow tainting who you really are? Why do people need to be right? Why do people want you to be a way when it might not be your true way?

Being right is overrated. I must have some small merit as I am. I must have value even if I am different. I think I deserve a ribbon or some such thing for not always being right, for simply being.

But I digress.

For being me I am giving myself a Convoluted Badge of Something.

Explore posts in the same categories: Adoptee control Issues, Fitting in to your new family, I don't know shit, Learning to be part of a new family, Maintaining a relationship with your birth mother, Playing by birth family rules, WTF

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