On writing about staring into the abyss

I wrote the post below after having mulled on it for some time, and not exactly sure where I would take it. As always, with writing, I am surprised at the outcome.

However, and completely unanticipated, writing that piece generated bouts of depression. I was reminded of my childhood, my dysfunctional family, and living in the shadow of a super achiever.

None of that has been pleasant, but sadly, is productive. With each bout of regret or depression, I go to bed at night with it on the mind, and wake up in the morning having processed it. It is now where it properly belongs, in the past. I am no longer depressed about whatever it was that triggered such feelings the night before. This might go on for some time now, as each evening as I tire awaiting bed, new memories are surfacing.

I’ve not led a perfect life, and took a long time to develop and mature. I would say that my mid-to-late thirties finally produced an adult male, a man capable of independent thought and judgment. Doing so led to divorce, years of child support and alimony, and penury. One does not bring five children into this world without bearing the financial burdens involved, single or married. I bore them, not only paying every penny of child support and alimony, but paying them on time … except once: I was doing some part time contract work for a trucking company, and they decided I needed to be on their payroll. Once there was withholding, the State of Montana stepped in and said they would be paying my child support. As result, a one-time payment to my ex-spouse was two weeks late. I finally convinced them that I am better at paying my bills than them, and they relented. Beyond that, every penny owed was paid, and paid on time.

But I entered my forties better fortified and happier, ready for new adventures and a new relationship. All of that has been marvelous, so all of the pain and suffering leading up to those times was worth it.

I do not set myself apart from others. We all have problems growing up, many if not most worse than my own. Further, I have one credo I fall back on now: For every bad thing that has come about in my life, there has been good. I am totally responsible for every bad thing, and take credit for the good. I am a mature, sentient, responsible man, and I do not blame others for my attitudes or happenstantial circumstances. It’s not what we deal with, but rather, how we deal with it, and my early years were not a shining how-to story.

My conclusion after writing the abyss post above: I have to let go of my birth family, never again imagining that I am connected to them in any way. There is a cemetery at St. Pius X church in Billings, and there are five side x side graves there. There is also a metal statue of my brother Fr. Steve outside the church. I have visited those graves but once since 2011, the year my two oldest brothers died, and will never do so again.

After all, they are not there, are they. Not even the guy encased in the statue.

__________________

Footnote: Speaking of those five graves in Billings, Montana, I note here that the Tokarski family plot is complete, and that I won’t be joining it. In my new life with my new spouse I found a new family, and all of the grandchildren in this family have never known another grandpa besides me, God rest the soul of the original good man occupying that slot. Even as I write this there exists a grave marker at a cemetery on Long Island that now shows my name and year of birth, and that will eventually show my year of death. My wife has one beside it, and it sits beside her mother. I am part of that family now, though I love my son and grandsons he gave me. I would like to add something to my marker, but dignity prevents words like “Was more than Steve’s kid brother” or “Turns out he wasn’t just chopped liver.”