Approaching: The Final Countdown

Once upon a time, in a land known as the East Coast, I knew a guy who was over ten years older than I am. He often talked about his life and after listening to him for a long time I noticed a pattern. He always blamed everything he didn't like about himself on his parents. He was cold that day? It was because when he was seven his mother made him wear an ugly jacket to school and he got teased. Things like that; you get the idea. One day I realized that he'd lived on his own longer than he'd lived with his parents, and was STILL blaming them for everything that went wrong in his life.

I don't want to be like him. However, I honestly *DO* believe that a lot of things I don't like or understand about myself can be traced back to my parents. So I set a goal. When I turn 30, there will be no more blaming my parents for how I am. I moved out of their house when I was 23 (and a half, if you want to get technical) and feel that almost seven years is ample time to get over the many traumas my parents caused me. Yes, I realize this is an overly ambitious goal. But I will try nonetheless. In a few days I'll turn 29. So before I have less than a year to blame my parents for everything I'll just toss out these two gems:

1. I hate cleaning if other people are around. I can't clean the kitchen if my roommate is home. I can't clean my desk at work if Loose Earlobe Lady or the Cowboy are around. Why, you ask? I asked myself that very question, and this is what I came up with: growing up my mother ALWAYS criticized my cleaning. If she sent me to clean my room she'd ask if she'd think it was clean when I announced being finished. If company was coming over and she sent me to dust, she'd always find a spot that I missed. Or two or twelve. Many times over the years, she'd wake me up after I'd gone to bed for the night, only to have me come down to the kitchen and reclean some dishes she didn't think were clean enough. So now I don't like to clean if there's anyone around, lest they point out how I've done it wrong.

2. A couple of weeks ago, I was having a HORRIBLE week. It was an outrageous effort to not cry at work at all moments. In the middle of all that, I had plans to meet a friend for lunch. So I left work, met my friend, had lunch with her, and sat around shooting the breeze for a half hour. Not only did I not tell her how upset I was, but it did not even OCCUR to me to tell her. Later that night when I was home feeling all alone in my troubles and generally sorry for myself, I realized most people bitch to their friends. Most people get support from their friends. I had a friend. I could have bitched. I could have gotten support. Or suggestions. Or both.

When I was a kid, if I cried, more often than not my father's response was "Stop crying before I give you something to cry about." My mother often told me that if I didn't tell her what was wrong, she couldn't help me. But when I'd tell her what was wrong she'd often say "I don't know what to tell you; I never would have gotten myself into that situation." What I got out of all that was to never tell people close to you that you're upset. They'll just make you feel worse.