To say your parents run your life is a misattribution. From day one, no one runs your life. You have agency, but your life is ultimately dependent on a certain set of conditions you have no control over. These include the conditions into which you were born, and whether you were born or not.
After about 15 years or so, an individual, raised in a fixed set of circumstances for so long, begins to take for granted the maintenance of those circumstances. The consequence of stability is for the individual in question to proclaim they "understand" the world, themselves, and what they want. This is, of course, naive. There are no teenagers immune from this conditon; and as demonstrated by many individuals I've come across along the way, it is seldom remedied. Even the introspective aren't given a pass -- for as Feynman said "You are the easiest one to fool."
By the time I had reached 30, I had far surpassed everyone's expectations of me. High school grad, college grad, district intern, experienced high school teacher, and at that point, until recently, single, and leader of a band. It was at 30 I noticed my parents, as if anew. They noticed me noticing them, and thus began perhaps the second happiest part of my relationship to them.
This part was different. All involved were independent adults. Whereas they had put years of hard work and struggle behind them, and embraced a new retired life thanks to some wheeling and dealing by my father's mother, I was finally able to appreciate that. What they had wasn't glamourous, but they had a home they owned outright, albeit in the middle of nowhere. In a place of arid soil, and seasonal climate, Dad would construct a garden and grow chilies and garlic and onions; he would tend numerous types of flower. Accidentally, they carried a hidden California poppy field in their move, and every spring, their lot was adorned with hundreds of them. It certainly brightened up an otherwise dull landscape dominated by sagebrush, wild juniper, cheat grass and rosemary.
Visiting my parents was a 6.5 hr drive. As the years would pass, the drive would feel shorter. I looked forward to visiting them with presents for each: a CD of compiled rare oldies Mom requested, and a bottle of single malt scotch for Dad. Our evenings consisted of dinner, then game after game of Gin Rummy, with the new music playing in the background. Dad kept score. We'd play to 3000 points. At some point, Dad and I would share a drink of whatever I bought, followed by a sandwich, or batch of nachos he'd make for us all to snack on. Mom was never in contention during these marathons. Dad was aggressively competitive in everything, and Mom just wasn't going to play into that by beating him. It was down to a war of attrition between Dad and I.
Mistakenly, Dad presumed I was as competitive. On more than one occasion where I just happened to win a few hands in a row, and he began to lose his temper, I made a point of reminding Dad I was just playing to enjoy the time with them -- I played whatever hand I was dealt, and whether I won or lost didn't matter to me. Dad would just look at me, then go back to one of the many tactics he used to distract: whistling, tapping on the table...singing out of tempo with whatever song was playing...None of it worked, but was an extension of the fact he'd always been a very forward and assertive person if he felt he could intimidate. He used it a lot when we were at a school function to keep me timid, or grandstand because of some achievement I'd made.
It wasn't until I was in my mid 30s that I truly began to build a bridge with Dad. By that time I was divorced -- Dad didn't think I'd have the guts to pull it off -- I'd also had my jaws realigned again. I was on equal ground with Dad. We liked being around each other. It was almost like it was when I was very small; a period where I could rely on things to be stable at home. Dad knew I was a good kid. I was interested in everything, and asked lots of questions. Mom taught me to read at an early age. I couldn't play outside like normal kids. I was sunblind, and weak in general. Mom was always terrified I'd fall and break my neck or something.
When I visited, Dad always had a new place he wanted to check out with me along for the ride. I went, never knowing where we'd end up. Once it was a German restaurant near Reno; once it was Twin Lakes; once it was Panum Crater, near Mono Lake. Another time we went to a ghost town, Bodie, and just milled around taking pictures. Mom wasn't able to walk far any more, plus, she liked the alone time. At least at that point, she knew Dad would return.
Had I three more years with Dad, I knew we would've had a breakthrough. He would have finally realized how similar his conditions, socially, growing up, were mirrored by mine. Perhaps we would understand each other better. Perhaps his mask would fall and shatter at last, and Dad and I could just "be." He'd know there were two people who he didn't have to feel scrutinized by at last.
The twelve years I spent caring for Mom, Dad was never far from the conversation, or out of either of our minds. We didn't miss his temper, his anger, or his know-it-all nature. We missed his voice, his warmth, his pork roast and dumplings, his apple pancakes, and the joy he'd show when he realized all was well as could be...a far cry from Wroclaw, Poland (then Germany), and the other places his family had to move to from 1934-45. He could have never guessed he'd end up with a family, a country home, and a wife of 53 years. It was incredible. I should be so lucky.
Having lost Mom, I have just gone through a period where the very firmament fell from beneath my feet. I would have never guessed how intertwined my sense of identity was with Mom and Dad. Even now, I often wonder if I live for any other reason than to connect with my parents....With them both gone, I've struggled to connect with others, and failed miserably. I still have friends, and I cherish them. I knew for a long time what it was to have none; but I tried to connect with a new person, and received a weird mix of explosiveness and cruelty in return. I was unprepared for that. It was undeserved.
All the good news, every development, merits a call to Mom and Dad, and reminds me that that option is gone now, forever. I have never felt so singular, nor so out of phase with the universe. Parents don't run your life. Considered properly, once grown, a person can see that they enhance it: learning, and care, and nurturing is a two way street.
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