Self Help

First, some context

When I was working on my undergrad in Art History, I learned a very important lesson. When it comes to understanding and appreciating art, its crucial to consider the context of the work. Who made it? Where did it come from? When the artist finally stood back and marvelled at their finished work, what kind of world were they introducing this art to? In this way I believe art mimics life  - the same is true when trying to understand people. 

So, my dear readers, I will start from the beginning. 

My upbringing was fairly typical. Youngest of three daughters, I was raised by my father - a police officer, and my mother - a jack of all trades who switched jobs approximately every 3 years. We lived in a house that my parents designed and built with the help of my Grandfather, who built his house next to ours. Our house had two storeys, complete with a big porch on the front and gardens on each side. At the foot of the stone pathway leading to our front door was a cement stone with our tiny handprints in it which my father had poured himselt.  All that was missing was the white pickett fence. 

We grew up in a generic town - the kind of place that people talk about existing in "the good old days" where everyone knew everyone on their street, everything was within walking distance, and the most action the police had seen in years was putting out a fire in a memorial park garbage can. Close to just about every big city but isolated by a shield of surrounding farmland, I was raised in a bubble.

My mother and father were highschool sweethearts, and there couldn't be two people more opposite. Okay, maybe like Mother Theresa and Hitler, but they weren't even around at the same time. Not that I would liken either of my parents to Hitler (well, on a good day) but I digress... My parents have been married for 35 years and they've taught me the value of patience, and the importance of accepting people for who they are.

I've always felt lucky that I was raised in a family with two parents, my best friend and I seemingly isolated from the world of divorced parents, two houses and split holidays.  They are both the only romantic love the other has ever known. This was both fascinating and terrifying to witness as I grew older, began my own relationships, and later began to watch each of those relationships eventually fail.

My father is constant, rational and strong. The breadwinner. I don't think he missed more than two days during his entire thirty year career as a police officer. We are very similar and both incredibly stubborn. We've literally been butting heads since I grasped language and could communicate my thoughts. I famously stood in my highchair and when he told me to sit down I declared, "You can tell me to sit down, but I'm not going to do anything you say because you're not the boss of me". I hardly doubt I was that articulate at such a young age, but hey, that's how the story goes.

During my adolescence we finally managed to communicate and our once strained relationship has become much closer in the years since I've left home. The lessons I've learned from my father are innumerable and it wasn't until recently that I've really been able to appreciate how much he's taught me, and just how much he shaped the person I've grown in to.

My mother is emotional, incredibly sensitive, and truly dances to the beat of her own drum. Or tambourine. Depending on her mood. As a child I rebelled against my father, and that only drew me closer to my mother. We spent a lot of time together when I was very young and my sisters had begun school. In a way, she and I are kindred spirits, often sharing an unspoken understanding. 

Not often feeling like she belonged, my mother always encouraged us to be ourselves, and be proud of who we are. Somehow my parents managed to exist in relative harmony, complementing and clashing for years and producing three very different children who reflect unique and sometimes disfunctional blends of both parents' personalities.

My sisters and I even look completely different. So different, in fact, that once a woman actually approached my mother in the supermarket and asked her if her children were all from the same father. That really happened. Only in a town like mine would someone feel that was appropriate. Andrea, the eldest, is tall, thin and fair, with blue eyes, blonde hair and freckles. Megan, the middle, is her opposite with brown hair like my mother, olive skin and hazel eyes. I fall somewhere in between in height, eye colour and skin tone. I'm the piece of the puzzle that fits us all together.

When bringing people home to meet my family for the first time, their first remark is often, "Now you make so much more sense". Like it or not, those four individuals have made indelible contributions to the person I've become. My family is crazy, dysfunctional, and full of love.  think the older you get the more you realize there is no such thing as a functional family, or a normal family for that matter. In fact, you probably realize that if things seemed "normal" in the past, it was just because you didn't have all of the information. That's the luxury of being young - no one tells you anything, and as they say, ignorance is bliss.