the way i’m wired

These things are true:

I have never liked asking for permission.
I have never really learned to ask for help.
I’m not argumentative, though I hate being wrong.
I don’t feel entitled to anything, generally, unless I have worked very hard for it. And then I will never understand, no matter how many ways you explain it, why I was not successful.
My pride gets hurt more easily than my feelings (though both much more easily than I will let on).

This little inventory got me to thinking. Ah, the depth of thought one gets when on over-the-counter medication. Why am I wired the way I am wired? How much of it needs to be reworked and how much of it do I just accept as being human frailty?

I don’t know.

I do know that my parents worked very hard to raise independent daughters. Growing up, my mother had two sayings – two very big lessons that she wanted me to learn.

There is a difference between need and want. We will give you everything you need.
When I was five, she bought me tap shoes. When I was seven, a piano. And when I was eight, she strapped half my body weight on my shoulders and took me on my first backpacking trip. She taught me to waltz, cha-cha and jitterbug by light of a campfire. She was my soccer coach, my Brownie Scout leader. I was given theater lessons, art supplies and a plane ticket to anywhere in the world. When I was twenty-three, she bought me a computer so that I could write a novel. To my mother, these were necessities.
Want it? Work for it.
She did not buy me the jean jacket I wanted in the 5th grade, an expensive prom dress or spring break trips. She did not pay for my college education. If these things were important to me, I would work for them. And I did.

My father, in turn, wanted me to learn self reliance, self respect and self acceptance. When I was 16, I did not get a car. Instead, my father gave me a set of keys to the family car (The Beast) and a series of lessons. Change a tire in freeway traffic, flush a radiator, and splice a ruptured hose. He taught me to work hard. “Don’t do a half-assed job, Kiddo”. He taught me to respect nature. He let me be a dreamer. He taught me justice, pride and independence. He told me I could do absolutely anything. And he tried to teach me not to be afraid of failure. Dear Dad, haven’t quite got that one. Can we go over it one more time?

I suppose the point of all this is that I had some damn fine nurturing during my growing up years, but I didn’t quite learn everything I was supposed to. I’m just awfully glad that there’s still time to sort out what I dislike about myself. That this isn’t a one-shot deal. That as long as I am reasonable enough to see my weaknesses, there’s still time to fix them.

And that maybe I should lay off the cold meds.