Fitting in

I’m reading the book Becoming Duchess Goldblatt. The author is Anonymous.

Part memoir and part joyful romp through the fields of imagination, the story behind a beloved pseudonymous Twitter account reveals how a writer deep in grief rebuilt a life worth living. (source)

Who is Anonymous? Does it matter? Nope—it’s her story and the way she tells it that matter most (to me). While the author is a wordsmith, she’s not a novelist or, necessarily a pro-memoirist like Joan Didion, Mary Karr or Augusten Burroughs. She’s mainly a copywriter, grant writer, journalist and editor. This book is, likely, a one off. I’m loving it.

Anonymous speaks of growing up with a wholly unsupportive nasty-piece-of-work mother, a violent and mentally ill, alcoholic, drug addicted brother and an ill but saintly, doting father. To a certain extent it sounds like a version of my own family but with fewer players.

Like in Anonymous’s household, all life revolved around my mentally banjaxed sibling. Mother coddled him—worse than I spoil cats. This, naturally, only resulted in my brother’s violent, obscenely selfish and delusional qualities flourishing, blooming like flowers in May.

In an effort to hide her wretched family life, Anonymous, outside the home, tried to behave as though everything was fine. She made an effort to conform.

I tried that too (to those who knew me in high school…NO SERIOUS AND TRUE, I honestly made an effort to fit in). It didn’t work out—AT ALL. Ya see, after moving every year or two (starting at the ripe ol’ age of 18 months), I had no idea what normal, age appropriate behavior was. The only input I got from mother was that I was to be quiet, not have any needs or wants and I was to act as the family’s servant. I was to grow up, marry a nice Catholic boy and pop out grandkids for her. It was okay that I played the flute and liked to draw but, Bast forbid I color outside the lines…EVER.

On the other hand, Daddy encouraged me to be myself—whatever that might be. It probably wasn’t until the end of senior year in high school that I started down that path. BUT, when you live in a very small town and your family is tumultuous and more than a bit odd, self discovery and exploration is a long, slow and desperately awkward slog. I believe I may have finally attained my goal—to be true to myself—at the age of 40. Better late than never, eh?

I was listening to Aerosmith’s Dream On yesterday (yes, on my internal turntable) and this Faulkner line came to mind:

The past is never dead. It’s not even past.