"The Piano"
Mar. 29th, 2021 09:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gunwithoutmusicI try to live my life without regrets, but I know that’s basically impossible. There are so many choices that I’ve made in life that I feel have drastically altered my trajectory, and I can’t help but think back and wonder how things would be if I had done them differently.
What if I hadn’t taken a gap year after high school and instead gone straight to college? I know for a fact that I would have majored in English, which probably would have led to me getting a career in the writing world earlier in life. Would that be a good thing or would I have gotten burnt out on it and ended up doing something completely different?
What if I had sworn off of dating after I broke up with my last ex, like I originally planned to do before I met my husband? I’m sure I might have thrived; after all, I managed to effectively support both of us for several years on my income alone, so maybe I would have done better if I only had myself to support. Maybe I would have had the drive to go after my dreams instead of putting them on hold in order to support him going after his.
What if I had not stayed at my current job when the former owner dangled the carrot of selling the business (and cutting me a several thousand dollar check once she did sell) over me for years longer than I should have held out for? Sure, I did get that big check, and it did help me get a house, but could I have been doing something else with my life and still gotten that house while being happier in my career trajectory?
Lots of “what if”s plague my mind from time to time. Intellectually, I know that it’s not really worth looking at. I can “what if” all day long and it won’t change the decisions I made and it won’t change the position I’m in. So holding onto those regrets is meaningless, and I try my hardest to rid myself of them, lest I be paralyzed by a never-ending cycle of “what if”s and not see the good in the life that I do have, that was born from all of the choices I made, whether they were “good” or “bad.”
There is one regret I’m still holding onto, that I didn’t even realize I was holding onto until a few weeks ago, when my husband and I were talking about it. It has to do with my grandmother on my mother’s side, who is, unfortunately, already gone from this world, so there’s really not much of a way to make closure.
I don’t remember my grandmother very fondly. She loved me, as she loved all of her grandchildren, but I believe that my older sister was her “favorite,” the only girl grandchild (my aunt has two children the same age as my sister and me, but they’re both boys). I think that she meant to make up for the strained relationship she had with my mother by doting on my sister, but that doting was frequently at my expense. Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing ever outright said that she liked my sister more than me, but it was something that I could tell, and so, after my grandmother moved a several-hour drive away to a town in the middle of nowhere, and there was a decent excuse to not go see her, I pretty much wrote her out of my life.
It doesn’t help that my grandmother was staunchly religious (and Pentecostal, no less), and that I, a gay teenager, knew that she would not accept me for who I was. I felt like the easiest option was just to distance myself from her, so that I wouldn’t know the pain of my grandmother disowning me, as I knew she would based on hearing her spew hatred about “the fags.”
For a good portion of my life, I was fine with this arrangement. I would see her maybe once every few years for a few hours, stopping by her house on my way to somewhere else, always ready to up and leave as soon as the opportunity presented itself. When she finally did find out that I was gay (because she managed to figure out how to use Facebook and an ex posted a picture of us together), she reached out to me to express her disappointment and how she hoped that I would spend more time with God and get sorted out. For me, that was the final straw, and I did not see her again.
Shortly before she died, my grandparents moved to a smaller house that was closer to town, so they wouldn’t have to drive as far if something happened that required emergency medical care. When they were in the process of moving, my grandmother asked my sister if she would like her old piano, which had been a fixture in my grandmother’s house since we were children. My sister told her that I would probably like the piano, since that was the instrument that I learned to play on, and I have many fond memories of being a child in my grandmother’s house, teaching myself how to play based on the old lesson books that my grandmother used to teach my mother how to play.
That piano was pretty much the only thing associated with my grandmother that I had any happy memories attached to, and my grandmother told my sister that she didn’t want me to have it. When my sister told me that, I was heartbroken again. This woman was finding a way to hurt me for being who I was even when we weren’t talking to each other at all, even when we hadn’t seen each other for years.
My sister took the piano, and secreted it away to my house, where it now sits in our den, unused. It’s incredibly out-of-tune, and a professional tuner that I approached about fixing it up told me that it wasn’t even worth it to fix, so it’s basically just a giant decoration at this point. But I have fond memories of playing at that piano decades ago, so I thought it would be nice to have something to remind me of anything good associated with my grandmother.
When she was very close to death, my grandmother reached out to me. She told me that she was sorry for how she had treated me and that she wanted me to know that she loved me and that she will always love me and that she understood how she was wrong. I read her message, and told myself, “This is the desperate act of a dying woman trying to buy her way into Heaven,” so I never responded to her.
A few weeks later, my grandmother was dead, and I didn’t regret not reaching out to her. Part of me was happy, and felt a strange sort of vindictive joy for getting that piano in spite of her.
But now, I think a little bit differently. I realize that maybe, just maybe, there was actually a chance that my grandmother was genuine. That maybe she really did want to make amends with me. And I regret not being open to that, and to ascribing selfish motivations to her actions, rather than just taking her at face value. I might have, at the very least, found some closure there.
Instead, I sometimes walk into the den and look at that piano that will never be played again, that reminds me of all of the good and the bad, that speaks to my regret so plainly, and I agonize over whether or not it’s worth even holding onto.
What if I hadn’t taken a gap year after high school and instead gone straight to college? I know for a fact that I would have majored in English, which probably would have led to me getting a career in the writing world earlier in life. Would that be a good thing or would I have gotten burnt out on it and ended up doing something completely different?
What if I had sworn off of dating after I broke up with my last ex, like I originally planned to do before I met my husband? I’m sure I might have thrived; after all, I managed to effectively support both of us for several years on my income alone, so maybe I would have done better if I only had myself to support. Maybe I would have had the drive to go after my dreams instead of putting them on hold in order to support him going after his.
What if I had not stayed at my current job when the former owner dangled the carrot of selling the business (and cutting me a several thousand dollar check once she did sell) over me for years longer than I should have held out for? Sure, I did get that big check, and it did help me get a house, but could I have been doing something else with my life and still gotten that house while being happier in my career trajectory?
Lots of “what if”s plague my mind from time to time. Intellectually, I know that it’s not really worth looking at. I can “what if” all day long and it won’t change the decisions I made and it won’t change the position I’m in. So holding onto those regrets is meaningless, and I try my hardest to rid myself of them, lest I be paralyzed by a never-ending cycle of “what if”s and not see the good in the life that I do have, that was born from all of the choices I made, whether they were “good” or “bad.”
There is one regret I’m still holding onto, that I didn’t even realize I was holding onto until a few weeks ago, when my husband and I were talking about it. It has to do with my grandmother on my mother’s side, who is, unfortunately, already gone from this world, so there’s really not much of a way to make closure.
I don’t remember my grandmother very fondly. She loved me, as she loved all of her grandchildren, but I believe that my older sister was her “favorite,” the only girl grandchild (my aunt has two children the same age as my sister and me, but they’re both boys). I think that she meant to make up for the strained relationship she had with my mother by doting on my sister, but that doting was frequently at my expense. Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing ever outright said that she liked my sister more than me, but it was something that I could tell, and so, after my grandmother moved a several-hour drive away to a town in the middle of nowhere, and there was a decent excuse to not go see her, I pretty much wrote her out of my life.
It doesn’t help that my grandmother was staunchly religious (and Pentecostal, no less), and that I, a gay teenager, knew that she would not accept me for who I was. I felt like the easiest option was just to distance myself from her, so that I wouldn’t know the pain of my grandmother disowning me, as I knew she would based on hearing her spew hatred about “the fags.”
For a good portion of my life, I was fine with this arrangement. I would see her maybe once every few years for a few hours, stopping by her house on my way to somewhere else, always ready to up and leave as soon as the opportunity presented itself. When she finally did find out that I was gay (because she managed to figure out how to use Facebook and an ex posted a picture of us together), she reached out to me to express her disappointment and how she hoped that I would spend more time with God and get sorted out. For me, that was the final straw, and I did not see her again.
Shortly before she died, my grandparents moved to a smaller house that was closer to town, so they wouldn’t have to drive as far if something happened that required emergency medical care. When they were in the process of moving, my grandmother asked my sister if she would like her old piano, which had been a fixture in my grandmother’s house since we were children. My sister told her that I would probably like the piano, since that was the instrument that I learned to play on, and I have many fond memories of being a child in my grandmother’s house, teaching myself how to play based on the old lesson books that my grandmother used to teach my mother how to play.
That piano was pretty much the only thing associated with my grandmother that I had any happy memories attached to, and my grandmother told my sister that she didn’t want me to have it. When my sister told me that, I was heartbroken again. This woman was finding a way to hurt me for being who I was even when we weren’t talking to each other at all, even when we hadn’t seen each other for years.
My sister took the piano, and secreted it away to my house, where it now sits in our den, unused. It’s incredibly out-of-tune, and a professional tuner that I approached about fixing it up told me that it wasn’t even worth it to fix, so it’s basically just a giant decoration at this point. But I have fond memories of playing at that piano decades ago, so I thought it would be nice to have something to remind me of anything good associated with my grandmother.
When she was very close to death, my grandmother reached out to me. She told me that she was sorry for how she had treated me and that she wanted me to know that she loved me and that she will always love me and that she understood how she was wrong. I read her message, and told myself, “This is the desperate act of a dying woman trying to buy her way into Heaven,” so I never responded to her.
A few weeks later, my grandmother was dead, and I didn’t regret not reaching out to her. Part of me was happy, and felt a strange sort of vindictive joy for getting that piano in spite of her.
But now, I think a little bit differently. I realize that maybe, just maybe, there was actually a chance that my grandmother was genuine. That maybe she really did want to make amends with me. And I regret not being open to that, and to ascribing selfish motivations to her actions, rather than just taking her at face value. I might have, at the very least, found some closure there.
Instead, I sometimes walk into the den and look at that piano that will never be played again, that reminds me of all of the good and the bad, that speaks to my regret so plainly, and I agonize over whether or not it’s worth even holding onto.
