Perspective is Everything
Have you ever encountered an experience so overwhelming that it introduced you to a version of yourself you never imagined you'd become? An experience that pulled you beneath the waves of depression, into the depths of avoidance, where chaos became your normal and simply staying afloat felt like a victory. Or maybe life has felt more like Groundhog Day, replaying the same lessons over and over until something within you finally shifts. The same patterns. The same pain. The same questions. Waiting for the moment you stop surviving long enough to begin changing.
Every single person interprets experience differently, and life in itself is dependent on the perspective they hold. I may live through the exact same experience as you, but the way I interpret it in my mind, the way I feel about it, and the way I experience it will be different from the way you experience it.
Over the years, I have had the pleasure of meeting various versions of myself. Some sad, some joyful, some confident, some not. Yet each version was Amanda in the flesh, living a human experience as a soul borrowing this body during my time on earth. Each version has taught me something unique about myself or my experience with life. I've gotten to meet the wounded warrior within me, the unpresent parent, and even the dedicated mother. I've played the role of a wife, a mistress, and a roommate. In each version, I'm inherently aware of the impact I have on others. I've had to learn that life is outside of my control, even if I helped create that life. As a parent, I have learned that I was given the gift of borrowing my children for a while. They are "loaned" to me for a few years until they grow and develop, then they become whole beings without me having a say over their interpretation of reality.
Today is court day, and anyone who has ever had the pleasure of experiencing the lovely judicial system here in America knows that means a few things. First, you must pick out a nice outfit with closed-toe shoes. Second, your appearance is required no later than 8:30 a.m., no matter where the courthouse is relative to your house. Lastly, it's a good idea to have all the required documents necessary, including your driver's license... (which I just so happened to forget. Great!)
At the time, we lived 2–2½ hours away from the courthouse we were required to appear at because the incident happened away from home. Note to self: It's not a good idea to press charges in a state or county away from where you live. Just saying.
Now, I am doing my best to interpret the events, not only for personal processing purposes but also because I believe this is a good opportunity to share a tiny snapshot of my life behind the screen with you.
This morning started with a buzz of anxiety in the air. Long before the alarm was set to go off, a stirring of nervous energy could be felt around the house. Picture this: the cats had strung yarn across the entire living room, making it look like a tangled mess of security lasers impeding your pathway to hydration. My husband's deep sighs, along with my need to toss and turn, made sleeping until the alarm nearly impossible. We were both regretfully up about fifteen minutes before it went off anyway, with zero pep in our step and little motivation to wake the sleeping lion—our daughter—from her slumber.
I placed clothes at the foot of her bed so that when she woke up, she'd have the prepared items to appear in court. I scoped her room for contraband and found a bottle of wine I had bought four years prior hiding in her closet behind a stuffed animal (believe me, I wish I was making this up). I swiped the bottle and locked it away from the light of day, though I'll admit a part of me wanted to pour some into my Stanley for the ride. (I, in fact, did not. Instead, I opted for instant coffee in a Yeti. Yum.)
Coffee in the Yeti. The most unflattering photo ever.
The lion was on a rampage the minute her eyes opened. I sometimes get a pit in the bottom of my stomach before entering her room. She saw me standing at the foot of her bed and quipped, "How dare you wake me up! I told you last night not to do that!" If she had a door on her room, she'd have pushed me out just to slam it in my face, I'm sure.
"How can I go get clothes without any underwear, MOM!" she snapped with a sneering undertone, as if she were entitled, at fifteen, to have me fully dress her.
I think the best one I heard that morning was, "I hope they put me in some sort of foster care today."
She said it so casually that I wondered if hearing it hurt me more than saying it hurt her.
Those were all phrases I heard come from her mouth that morning. Mind you, all I had done was place clothes on her bed without even saying a word to her. She stomped around the house, rejected the pants I'd picked out, and started shoving things off a chair, making a loud bang that caused my father-in-law to investigate, believing his wife had just fallen.
Nope.
Just my fifteen-year-old toddler throwing a tantrum before court and making every attempt possible to disturb the whole house.
We drove the few hours down to the courthouse in a tension-filled car. Gentle, calming music played quietly in the background. I spent the first hour or so attempting to deflect the anxious arguments being tossed in my direction. We arrived for trial only to sit there for another three and a half hours before finally being called in for our turn. She was sentenced and then sent to the probation office to sign all the required paperwork.
Sitting in the probation office provided me with a stark reminder of why I have never allowed myself to get into legal trouble. Watching my daughter try to argue the terms of her probation with the officer, attempting to fall back on the attorney's word, made my head spin. It was setting in that this was real, yet she was still attempting to negotiate the terms.
It was in that moment that I realized just how much her life would rely on me over the next year. She experienced the sentence as losing control over her life. I experienced it as the beginning of accountability.
Each individual experiences life through their own lens.
My daughter's interpretation of reality is far different from mine. We can live inside the same house, survive the same morning, sit in the same car, walk into the same courthouse, and still be living entirely different experiences.
Dare I say, perspective shapes everything.
Thank you for stopping by to read from the She Writes blog. Each piece is written from the heart with intention of finding those who need it most. If this resonated, feel free to let me know.
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