Sometimes I realize I don’t really know myself at all. That sounds kind of weird to say. I mean, I’ve lived with myself for more than 25 years and I feel as if I’m at least moderately well-adjusted and self-aware.
I think it ties into regrets, but not the way I used to think about regrets. I used to think about regrets as in times that I wish I could change the decision I made because it was a questionable decision at the time and turned out to be quite stupid. Or not even necessarily stupid, but just different from how I would have liked things to end up.
Sometimes I don’t even think about these things in a sad way of wishing they’d ended up a different way, but rather a pondering mindset of just curiously wondering how my life would have ended up if I’d chosen another adventure.
It’s been a long time. A hefty combination of writer’s block and lack of motivation have played a heavy role in that, but for the past few months there’s been something else as well. Something that I’ve wanted to write about but wasn’t really sure how or when the right time would come.
My mom’s been quite open about the whole experience, but to this point there had been nothing on Facebook. So I figured I should wait until she was ready to break that barrier, even if it took a little prodding of sorts from her crazy son.
Three months ago my parents came to visit me for a weekend in Ashland. They’d done the same the previous year, since I wouldn’t be able to come “home” for Thanksgiving. The first time they came we spent the weekend driving all around Ashland looking at possible houses that were for sale as we made my place in the Rogue Valley a bit more permanent. This time the experience was a bit more sobering.