There are hard times ahead of us just as there were hard times behind us. To each one that had lived through the years we spent together it seems like the world, as it is now, isn’t a part of the world that we knew back then. The two realities have come to form separately in our minds; one defined solely by memory and the past, and the other a series of reactions we experience from one day to the next, an accumulation of senses, feelings hurt and opinions. But there was a much more violent stretch of time that we had all witnessed together. And how it was that we survived those times, difficult and trying as they were, is still a mystery to me.
I’m talking about childhood and family. I’m talking about those horrible teenage years. I’m talking about those interim years we spent as a family looking for the next place to live, that awful memory of being too old for financial instability to that degree to actually be a thing. We stayed in some fucking rented condo once when I was 18 because I was still living there with my family and my older brother and my parents still didn’t have their shit together.
Is this me doing exactly what they did? Am I just repeating the same thing they did at my age, telling themselves they’ll eventually get it together and then coasting by in their 50s on the hopes that something will eventually work out? Here’s a hint: things have a better chance of working out if you try every goddamn day. If you can shake off this hellish nightmare of repetition and realize that you have to build some sort of god awful tedious momentum before things get better. We live and we live and we live and we try not to repeat what the others did before us because we think we can break the pattern. Some of us succeed.