My family makes me insane. Like a caged animal. I fit into their little molds of me: good daughter, caretaker, rule follower. Whatever. If you don't care what others think of you, then it doesn't matter, right? I don't think I care. I mean, I obviously do, cause I'm blogging about it, but I'm trying not to.
A few of them, like Diane and her son George, can be really mean. They say things that aren't true just to be funny or fit a story. They also just say mean things just to get your goat. And it can hurt. It's not a nice trait in a human being. I try to be honest, but censor myself when it's not a nice thing to say. I don't know. I'm just sensitive lately because I don't know myself.
My cousin and I have been going to a book club, and the first meeting we all had to describe ourselves on a big piece of posterboard. Everyone was putting who their husband/children were, where they lived, what they did for a living. What did I put? I like to go barefoot and to travel. And I'm sober.
So who am I? What do I have? I don't mean possessions, but how do I describe myself now that I don't have a job or a place to live?
When the speaker for my group got up, she said, this is Anne, our little free-spirit. I appreciated that, but it kinda stung, too. I am a free-spirit, but so's my mom. It has some negative connotations for me.
I've decided to go back to the other coast. I'm going to take a meandering drive across the US this summer/fall and see some folks along the way. I'm excited, and horribly nervous.
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