I give up. I wrote six pages (out of a recommended 10-15)... it's all fairly coherent, it proves my thesis, so I quit. I simply cannot spare another brain cell tonight (and only one more tomorrow, to check it over and polish it).
Thanksgiving was pretty cool. I spent it with my grandparents (and my biological dad). That's pretty generally both fun and emotionally taxing. If you know my story at all, you know I've only been in touch with them since my 18th birthday. While Grandma and I get along famously, things with Michael (the dad dude) are more confusing and difficult. Not to say we fight or anything, but there's a difficult history, regrets on both sides of the fence, and I don't know what the entirely true story is, because I don't have my mom's story from her own lips. Somehow I am sure that her story would be the most fair toward all parties.
On the other hand, I'm now starting to feel more like a member of the Miniea family. We went to St. Peters to my cousins Lee and Phyllis' house, and we had a rather large crowd. I felt comfortable enough to joke around and be my usual smart alecky self ("Boy, I'm glad I got a piece of chocolate cake before Aunt Alex drops it on the floor in about two seconds...").
Grandma gave me pictures of Mom and Mike's wedding. When I get some free time for contemplation, I'm going to search these questions I have dancing around my head, like, "What must it have felt like to be sixteen, getting married, and having a baby? What if Mike hadn't screwed up with the drugs and alcohol... would we have stayed a proper family? And what if the stress of the marriage and divorce triggered Mom's cancer? What if? What if? What if?" I know it's pointless to explore the what ifs, especially since, as Aslan said, "It's not for you to know what if." The what-ifs will never be, so it's a waste to over-ponder them. Nevertheless, I have to wonder. What would it have been like to have young parents rather than old ones, like the ones who raised me? Would I still have found the Lord? Would I still be as comfortable around older people as I am? Would I have grown up faster in order to help take care of things around the house? Mike told me that when I was still living with them while they were married, I was just about two years old, but I would operate the can opener on a can of pasta, put it in a bowl, and microwave it. If I did stuff like that at that young of an age, what else would be different if I'd had to take care of myself more? Is my tendency to yearn for and thrive off of independence have anything to do with those first two years?
There are so many questions, but the one who could have answered them the best is gone. I just wonder.