Thoughtful Thursday

What makes us who we are? Is it the sum of the events in our total life? Is it the way we were raised? Is it the way we think about the path our life takes? Can a single event change who we are and the way we see things? Do we truly have a destiny in life or do we have the ability to change our path?

~~~~~~~~~

I have often asked these questions without knowing what the right answers are or even if there is a right answer. I am the type of person who likes to have definate answers for everything...I like to know the plan before it happens and I don't feel comfortable when there is no real plan. So life often has me feeling uncomfortable, it often leaves me with more questions than answers and often I end up pondering things that most people probably don't even think about. Today, I am pondering once again!

~~~~~~~~~

You see, my life has had so many hardships, so many difficult times that I often think to myself "WHY AM I HERE?" Am I living proof that everyone (including God) makes mistakes? Perhaps God realized he had made a couple of really bad mistakes (my parents) so s/he put them together to create a bunch more kids and see if one of them could right the wrong. Perhaps God thought that if the bad creations created 7 other creations then chances are at least one of those 7 would survive to turn it around and make something good out of the bad. Am I just a pawn in gods game of life? Do I have the ability to make a decision on my own or are all of my decisions already written down somewhere in the book of destiny and I am just moving through the paces?

~~~~~~~~~

A part of me likes to think that I do have the ability to change things, to change my path and right the wrongs. A part of me thinks I can be the good seed that came from the rotten tree and I can raise a child who is well rounded and strong even when I feel so weak. But then, when I think that, I also think....the apple never falls far from the tree and the evil soil that fed their soul also feeds mine. As Aunt Marge in Harry Potter said "If there's something wrong with the bitch, there's something wrong with the pup." I am the pup, the runt of the litter, and there was definately something wrong with the bitch that was my mother.

~~~~~~~~~

And finally today I remember back to my youth, to a time when I was maybe 6 or 7 years old. It was late at night and I was asleep, woken by the screams of my mother looking for her hairbrush. Someone had obviously used it and not returned it....a cardinal sin in her book. So everyone was dragged out of their beds by the hair on their heads, they were lined up in the living room like little soldiers who had just been busted for sneaking off barracks. We were informed that no one in the house would be allowed to sleep until someone fessed up to taking the brush and then produced said brush and accepted their punishment. If no one fessed up then we would all hunt for the brush until it was found and then we would all suffer the punishment so that the right person ended up being punished. The brush in question had a brown handle with black nylon bristles, we all knew it well. It made your hair shiny and smooth and (in the case of my older sister #2) made the boys want to look at you. It was an awesome brush, everyones favorite and no one was going to step up and accept a punishment for something they did not do. It was most likely mother who had hidden the brush so that we couldn't use it and forgotten where she had hidden it....this happened often.

.

And so we all spread out on our mission....find the brush as slowly as possible so as to put off the punishment as long as possible. While hunting for the brush, try to muster your energy and thoughts....what would it be this time? Would it be the leather belt or the horse whip? Would she merely hit us with her bare hands, or maybe (dare we hope) she would find it, realize she had hidden it and forget all about punishing us and send us to bed like a normal mother??? NAH that would NEVER happen....she would punish us just so that she didn't have to admit she had messed up!

.

Finally I heard the yell, "I have it!" It's older sister #3 and she's in the bathroom. We all line up again, as ordered by the evil queen, and await our punishment. She demands to know who took it....no one will answer. I refuse to suffer alone as do the others, no we take this together united brothers and sisters, even if one of the others made this mistake we would suffer with them so they did not have to suffer alone. I am then instructed to go get the metal yard stick behind the living room door...man that always sucked! Having to go get the implement of pain, knowing that since you were the one sent you would have to suffer first. Why did she always pick the little one to go first? It wasn't fair!

.

She would holler at me to stop dragging my feet (easy for her to say she wasn't the one facing her doom) and so I would speed up just a little so as to not anger her much more. But then odd thoughts start running through my brain...I could walk right past that living room door, into the kitchen and escape out the front door. I could run away or at least go hide in the chicken coop until she calmed down....no I had to do this, I had to face the music and take this punishment because if I didn't it would be worse once she found me and the others would suffer more for my insubordination.

I carry that big metal yard stick back to her, lean over the couch, drop my pants and prepare for another beating. Bite my cheek, try not to cry, look into my older sisters eyes as I feel the first stinging snap of the cold metal upon my tiny bottom. I wince and hear her words "Cry and you'll get more!" I try not to cry, but I can't help it, it cuts my skin, it bruises my very soul and once again I ask......

.

"Why god? What did I do to deserve this?"

.

to which I recieve no reply, just another snap of the metal upon my tiny bottom. And when she is done with me, when I can barely stand, let alone walk, she calls for older sister #3 and she goes through the line...youngest to oldest, making all of us watch as she beats the others reminding each and every one that if we cry we get more, for that is her moto, her way of teaching us not to touch her hairbrush with the brown handle and black nylon bristles.