Who are We Really

It’s interesting to once more realize how little I know about those I care for, the family I grew up with, friends, etc. Does anyone really know who we are on the inside? How much of us do we allow to be seen? What secrets do we hold inside?

I’m working on putting together stories about my family, the ones who came before me. I vaguely remember stories, either witnessed or told to me by someone else, but to really know who those people were, how they were… I can’t even guess. I’m sad to think there’s so little I know, and for me, what’s worse in a way, is I don’t want to just know the story, I want to know how they personally felt. I want to know how events affected them as individuals. I want to understand WHO they were as individuals!

And stories told have the storyteller’s versions, their side, and in not knowing other sides, we develop our own truths over situations. How you saw something might not be how I saw it. I want to know those other sides. Stories passed down may have looked different to the person being talked about.

I remember my mother and aunt (twins) telling stories of their past. Their memories of a same event often differed, and they’d argue a bit over what really happened. Yeah, time muddies the waters. Even my brother and I, when we talk about our childhood, have totally different views of our experiences.

As close as I was to my mother, there was much she hid from me. It makes me wonder about the “faces” we put on while around others. How parents and family members act around children as compared to how they interact with one another and their friends. How do siblings act with one other? How do children act with their peers, then with their families? And how do we/have we all changed as we’ve gotten older?

These days, as much as I stay true to myself, I’m very aware I act differently depending on who I’m around. I have to be aware of what topics can be discussed. There are times when I’m open and friendly and times when I pull in and cower behind a self-imposed shield when I feel emotionally unsafe.

Yet, I have this desire to know who people are on the inside. What makes them tick? What are their real feelings? What are their fears? WHO are they behind the face they show publicly? I even have this same curiosity over people I may not care for and/or disagree with.

Is there something in us as kids when we don’t really care to know about family history? Was there a part of me that blocked out some of Mum’s stories? I remember stories in little tidbits, short blurbs mentioned here and there. Nothing complete.

I want to honor my family’s stories, acknowledge who they were. I believe everyone lived interesting lives. All have a story to tell. How sad for those who never got to have their stories told. How sad when people are forgotten.