To those who read my posts frequently (thank you so much for the support), I must sound like a broken record. Sometimes at least. If I am not writing about practical changes in my transition, or documenting physical changes, I am pondering recurring themes. What does it mean to be in charge of your life?
I can´t help clashing with this issue, over and over. Part of this is due to my childhood, in which I helplessly watched my parents try to exercise some type of control over their lives, which continued to slip out of their hands. Neither of them were very good at accepting their fate, and both resorted to extreme measures to change it.
To tell you the truth, I frequently feel sad about being so hard on myself. I seem to accept very little, if anything at all. My mom was the type who would beat you with a typewriter if she felt out of control. My father would resort to smaller, and yet equally defeating habits, like controlling exactly where an item would be placed.
I wish so much that I were different than them. Not out of spite for their actions, but out of a deep desire to break this chain of hatred, to let them know somehow that I did not carry it on, that I did not perpetuate this feeling. But I do. I feel defeated, messed up, and hopeless in the quest for control over my life.
In an ironic and slightly sadistic turn of events, the last place where I called the shots (namely my uncomfortable home) unexpectedly became impossible to live in and thus forced me to live in a series of temporary homes, among which a canvas tent which was unable to stop the rain.
The leaks in my tent, perhaps, are the perfect illustration of the fact that I cannot, apparently, control any aspect of life. In the grand scheme of things, you could see this as a sign from the universe – to stop being stubborn and accept what I cannot change. Yet, message from the universe or not, I am not that good at changing my ways.