Both sides now

If you’re feeling nostalgic about your past, I can understand that, but your feelings probably mean you’ve got something worth missing. Or something worth reliving, which you wish you could do. Maybe it’s an idyllic childhood, or something you believe was good, something you’d like to experience again, some happy moments or a relationship that was worth its weight in gold.

Really? Who has things like that to remember and - much worse - to relive? Not me, that’s for sure. Actually, I think nostalgia is very overrated. People want to think the past was better than the present, but they’re fooling themselves. They’re most likely trying to convince themselves that they never did anything wrong, that nobody did anything wrong to them, that problems - if there were any - were insignificant.

Forgive me for these ideas, but I have no reason to reminisce. The past was horrendous, as I see it. There’s nothing worth holding onto from back then. Perhaps I should explain.

First of all, my parents didn’t love me. They paid very little attention to the little human they had created. They didn’t love me because they had each other. They would have been just fine without me. Certainly they would have had a bit more money to spend, and money was definitely scarce.

When my mother’s mother died, my mother became a shell full of nostalgia. The worst thing was, she never stopped telling me about her friends (some of whom had Greek names, but none of whom was of a different race). She told me about the places she’d lived in, one of which had - shudder - cockroaches in the cupboard. Or she told me about the dying lady who was in so much pain that they put ice cubes in her mouth to alleviate her suffering. It didn’t matter if the lady was a family member or a friend, because the pain and tragedy were sufficient for her to be remembered. As a little girl listening to those stories, I crossed my fingers and prayed to somebody to spare me that suffering.

My mother also told and retold the story of the girl who was killed by an idiot professor at a famous university who ran over her, shifted gears, then ran over her again, although she might have already been dead. That event happened on a date nobody ever told me, but the problem was that it happened over and over. It was like the driver of the car, who kept running her over, years after it happened the first time.

Then there was the ghost who occupied many moments and remained nameless until the day she was finally named. I never wanted to know the reason, but was told anyway. There was absolutely no way to feel nostalgic about the figure who haunted my mother and whom I inherited. My own ghost, like a sister who never was. But she was, and when she materialized, her words were a slap in the face. I might have loved her, but she spoke so harshly and so coldly that I knew she was going to leave and never think about me again - until the next death.

Nobody in her right mind would feel nostalgic about her. She didn’t even know who I was. I’m surprised I recognized her.

That’s not all, though. Some recall grandparents and what they meant. The ones I had were mean or crazy. They had no love to give anyone, least of all me. They were stick people, stern and dry, opinionated and stiff. There was truly nothing grand about them. One even called me names when she knew nobody else was around to hear her.

The past, however, is more than a few relatives. Mine was pretty chaotic. There were struggles to make ends meet, pets who died, friends who talked behind my back, a house that was old and ramshackle, a real embarrassment. There were bills to pay and some that were never paid. I’ve seen all the demands for payment, so I can prove that was true. 

Maybe I could feel nostalgic about school or afternoons in the town library or fishing in Crooked Creek, but why? I was inept at making friends, was accused by a librarian of stealing a book (I hadn’t!), and the creek was only good for catching salamanders and pollywogs. Actually, the pollywogs were interesting and I loved watching them, but oo many of the ones I took home never survived. I felt terrible.

All of this doesn’t mean nothing good ever occurred before I turned fifteen, but there wasn’t much of it. Then came fifteen and everything went further downhill. I had crushes on every boy in my classes, but none paid any attention to me. I was convinced I was ugly and although I never shared that idea with my parents or anybody else, I knew they agreed. 

There’s a whole lot more I could tell you about, but it isn’t my intention to bore you with my whining. There’s simply nothing there when I look back. Nothing I miss and nobody I’d love to have here again, at least not for the first thirty years of my life. Those were wasted. After that, things got even worse…

I went to college without a clue as to what I wanted to be when I finished. (By the way, I finished college and still have no idea of what I want to be.) I still had no friends, so I hung around with people who did have them. I hoped things would turn around, but they didn’t. I graduated with average grades and got a job. I also got a dog, but he died. It wasn’t my fault, but it felt like it.

Now I’m at the point in life when everyone gets nostalgic, except as you can see, that’s not my case. There’s nothing and nobody to miss, no home I’d like to go home to, no friends, no dog. I try very hard every day to be honest, looking at myself in the mirror and saying today’s the day.

Today’s the day for what? For remembering the good things, the things learned school and from my parents? For thinking about the fun places I went and things like Roseland? Of course not. Facts are facts and life is too short to go around peeking under rocks to see if something happy jumps out. 

Wait! Something good just came to mind, a really pleasant memory. I’m lying on the old hardwood floor with a coloring book and the largest box of crayons money could buy (either 64 or 82). I’m coloring and doing a good job of it. However, the pages of the book are boring. I’m coloring because I like the colors and their names. There! I’ve found it. Nostalgia. That’s mine. 

It’s all I’ve got. Unless I get another dog. If I do, maybe I’ll name it Joni Mitchell.