Apples & Oranges

They say the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree... well, I’ve got mixed feelings about that... Because if that makes me an apple, I don’t know how closely I want to be associated with the tree. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the tree is fine, there’s nothing all that bad about it, like it’s not evil or anything. I don’t know, there might be some ulterior motives, strings attached- with what the tree offers, but I don’t think it comes from a malicious place. However, the thing about the tree is, you don’t really know what to expect. Will it be beautiful or ugly? Will it provide refuge or extend its branches and harm those within reach?

I don’t remember much from childhood, but I do remember the uncertainty, the unease, the confusion. But how could I have known that anything was off? That was the only life I knew, and I thought that was just part of growing up... tripping, stumbling through life trying to find your way. Everyone is as confused and uneasy as me, right? Actually, I probably wasn’t thinking any of that, I was just a kid. I was probably too busy conducting cross sectional blind taste tests amongst my toys (determining how color affects taste in Play-Doh- of course) to pay any attention to how my life experience related to others my age. Do all grown-ups act a little strange? But I always knew when I screwed up, the belt or wooden spoon communicated that loud and clear. Unless I was in trouble though, I was left to my own devices to learn through trial and error. And let me tell you, that learning style works wonders...

I learned so much growing up. Like how to manage my behavior around emotions, learned when to be present, and when to disappear, when to comfort and reassure, when to try and when it wasn't a good time. I can’t blame you... I mean the TREE. I can’t blame the tree; it didn’t know how sick it was. There was rot taking over from the inside with no external clues. The leaves were still green, and the branches looked strong. Anyone walking by would say “Oh, what a beautiful tree!” Kind of like the comments about our family. That good Christian family, perfect image of the American dream; Mom, Dad, two kids, a house (no picket fence though, so maybe not so perfect). But in the space between those walls there was so much more than meets the eye.

“Hey! Hey! I know you!”
“Huh? Oh, uh... no, I don’t think so.”
“Yeah! I’m sure. It’s Ethan, right?”
“No. My name is Robert; I think you’re mistaking me for someone.”
“Robert...hmm, well I probably got the name wrong, but didn’t we go to high school together?”
“I don’t know, maybe... where did you go to high school?”
“Ohio.”
“I went to school here in Michigan, sorry, I don’t think we know each other, and I really need to finish my grocery shopping. Have a good day.”
“Oh, right, yeah. It was good to see you!”

Situations like these would sometimes happen growing up, it was confusing, and embarrassing. Why did he act so weird? Lighthearted excuses were always thrown around as to why... (He’s an artist. He’s just eccentric.) Making light works when you don’t want to face what’s really going on. And I will say, most of the time these strange behaviors were benign, no big deal, no threat to anyone... but still, not having even an ounce of understanding of the situation affected us. Sometimes I wonder what their perspective was... did they think it was better not to tell us? I see that they didn’t want to worry us... but maybe they were in denial? I think it was probably a little bit of both.

“The turkey is missing, why are people coming into our house and stealing our food? How come we don't see them, are they aliens?”

It’s funny right? The things he would do or say, a lot of the time just seemed funny or quirky. Does he seriously think aliens are stealing the deli meat? Should I worry too? No that's absurd, right? Not trusting my reality is a habit I learned growing up. It’s been a struggle even into adulthood, to be sure if what I’m experiencing is real or if it's a fantasy narrative I’ve created. And trusting if my reaction or emotional state is appropriate for the situation... that's another story, to be covered in another essay, I’m sure.  But that’s what I did growing up, I created an alternate reality to believe I existed in a place where everything was fine, life wasn’t chaotic or unpredictable, it’s all good here! It’s a hard habit to break and the more ingrained it becomes, the more the self-doubt grows and persists. I see many similarities between him and I, whether I like it or not, I mean for one, we’re both artists. We both have a passion for creating something out of nothing, turning that otherworldly landscape in our minds into something beautiful. And that’s something I really appreciate about myself, my ability to turn pain into beauty, to relate to others through my experiences and share an emotional connection through my art. Yet I wonder how similar our brains truly are... I fear the genetic link is too strong, what will my future hold? Who will I become?

“Is that the police? They’re following me, aren’t they? Why are they still following me? You guys see them, right? They’re following us.”

I sometimes feel guilty for how much I worry about struggling like he did. What a sad thought it is... knowing one of your biggest fears is turning into one of your parents. If he knew that, it might break his heart. I know it would be devastating for me to hear that my kid fears becoming me. And I truly don’t want her to be like me, I see my faults, and I see her beautiful heart and mind, and the strength of her independence. I want her to be her own person. However, it’s a very different thing, not wanting to be like your parents versus being afraid of becoming like them. Fear is such an interesting concept. I used to think a healthy dose of fear for your parents was a good thing, that it was a sign of respect. Obviously, that was the type of parent I was going to be when I had kids... they’d be wonderful, obedient little robots (but only wonderful if those little robots followed their programming). We learn from what we see, our examples become the norm- so I thought that was normal, that’s what good parenting looks like. But is it really fear that’s at the heart of love? Now, I’ve set that idea ablaze and buried the ashes deep beneath the dirt, watering the ground with informed perspectives allowing new ideas to bloom. Interesting the things that change once you have a kid of your own.

I know there are generational differences so it’s understandable our parenting approaches would be different, but what kind of parent do I want to be? More than anything, I don’t want my kid to feel the same way I sometimes felt growing up. I don’t want her to live in a state of uncertainty, I don’t want her to be confused about my love for her. I don't want her to feel uneasy around me, not knowing when the deafening silence will turn to quiet rage. Every choice I make in my parenting is carefully considered, scrutinized behind the lens of how I was parented and how that affected me. And I needed to remove the rose colored filter from that lens so I could see my parents for who they really are… people. I wanted to make sure I was remembering things clearly so I could decide how to better respond to my child. But I’m finding that sometimes I don’t have thoughtful responses, sometimes I do just react. Sometimes I witness my parents come out of me in the words I speak, or the tone of my voice.  I know my dad and I are not the same person... but what if we are?

“Dad, you’re sleeping a lot... are you okay?”
“...”
“Dad, I’ve got a game this weekend can you come?”
“...”
“Dad, I know your faith is important to you, I’m sharing my testimony at this event. I really want you to be there.”
“...”

It must be me...

I didn’t know the tree was sick until I was 28 years old. Within the fruit of the tree, I noticed the early signs of rot: the flesh inside that bright green, Granny Smith skin, looked dull. Tainted by the untreated mental illness that flowed through the veins of the tree, the fruit became sick as well. In fact, it was through seeking help for itself that it learned the extent of the tree’s sickness. It was beyond understanding why the tree didn’t try to get help, didn’t try to get healthy. And for a while the apple was angry, it was doing what it needed to heal, and if the tree had accepted help, maybe the apple would never have been sick in the first place.

My entire life I tried my hardest to be the best apple I could be. To shine the brightest and bring the tree joy, or to stay hidden amongst the leaves to not bother the tree with my needs. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t getting nourishment from the tree, why it felt so difficult to hang on to that branch. We were connected, the tree and I; shouldn’t the relationship be easy? I am the fruit of this tree, why does it feel like I’m fighting against nature to stay attached? And although the tree is still standing, over time, I’ve realized I can let go. I can break my stem free from the branch, drop to the ground and see what else the world has to offer. And the very moment I made that choice and was caught by the blades of grass below, I realized... maybe I didn’t have to be an apple, maybe I could be an orange instead.