I spent the entire first half of my life trying.
I tried so hard to be the best child, best student, the perfect wife, perfect mother. Being a parent is not easy — children expect you to accept anything they come up with and carry any load. When they’re young, I think that’s how it should be; when they’re older, it’s another thing entirely.
You begin to think of them as ungrateful wretches sometimes. Not very perfect-motherly of me.
I tried so hard to be all things to everyone.
Like many lonely, insecure, unhappy women, I sought solace in religion. I have been a deeply spiritual person ever since I can recall. I remember begging to be allowed to go to catechism classes in grade school, even though we were not Catholic.
When I was a young wife and mother, I met with a priest because I very much wanted to become part of the Catholic church. I think the ritual, the sense of ages-old tradition was particularly appealing to me.
But both times, the Church had no place for me. It brushed me off.
Then I found a church that did accept me — a non-mainstream religious organization. They not only accepted me, they welcomed me with open arms. At first, it was marvelous. At last, I thought, I had found a home. The members were kind, generous, so happy to have me join.