Family Conversations

As much as family cares about you, they tend to (a) over-protect; (b)over-analyze character flaws you had as a child; and (c) think their wisdom is pertinent for every situation and ultimately, should be shared.

When you think of these things; you know it's out of love and concern and you find yourself smiling through the conversation. But sometimes, the small voice living in back of your mind screams in it's child-like way "But I'm adult now! No really, I do know that!"

For me, my family is the source of strength; steadfastness; and lives by the mantra "you can do anything you put your mind to!" It kinda worked well for me.
This brings me to the other day. I was "catching up" with family and they were checking in asking me about my current situation.

"Are you sure you're happy?"
"Yes, I am unbelievably happy." I said.
"But you're sure, you've just been through so much!"
"Can't you hear it - listen - this is me happy!" I found myself trying to smile through the phone.
"Oh," she says, her voice changing slightly. "You're surviving."
"No," I said. "I am living."

I had to think about that conversation - it struck me. I was living. I had already survived. I don't think I was consciously aware of it at the time, but I had just been surviving. I think I spent a very long portion of my life, just doing that.

It's seams surreal looking back on it now. How did I survive in that environment - living with a particularly odd set of arrangements for so long? What was the motivation for doing so?

Convenience
Fear
Familiarity

Maybe a combination of all three?

After a quick once over of my life today; there is no weight on my shoulders, there is no sense of panic living in the pit of my belly. There is no let down, avoidance, or neglect. There's just me - walking in and out of every situation I need to be and I'm smiling through all of it. I'm happy to be there. I'm enjoying the exact place in time where I am and not wanting the moment to end. I think that constitutes as happiness.

Prevailing
Out from under the brush
Where the ground is hard and cold
I stumble where my footing was lost
and discover a story that was never told.

The tale is mine
Its one that has been hiding
The pages are torn and
the outside cover looks a little frightening

The binding has bent
The pages begin turning
The pictures have color
Perhaps there will be a happy ending