Ohana.
I've been thinking a lot today about family and genetics. For those who may not know, mental illnesses can run in families. Seeing as how my mother's family lived in The Netherlands during two world wars, I don't doubt the presence of PTSD. I know that at least one of my aunts has it. I'm no geneticist, but I wouldn't pass off for a second that someone in my line has suffered with Bipolar, as well.
Warning: It gets pretty sappy after this...
I got my red hair from this lovely lady, my father's mother. I know that there's dementia on my father's side, which I've read can lead to other mental illnesses, but as far as I know, nothing else. She had a great sense of humor that I like to claim to have also gotten from her.
I got my empathy and stubborn personality from this lovely lady, my mother's mother. This strong woman lived through two world wars, one of which she had five kids. There would be two more kids, one of which (my mother) was almost born on the ship during their move to America.
And just for kicks (and to prove I'm not adopted, though sometimes I wonder), this is my mother. Well, my uncle, too, but I got most of who I am from this lovely lady. She taught me how to care about others, she's put up with my insane phases, and put me (and my sister) above herself at every turn. I've screamed at her, called her names, and have begged her to leave me alone, but she's still by my side whenever I need her. She took me to dance classes/performances/competitions, put up with me while I learned to play clarinet, made me a gypsy costume when that's the only thing I wanted to be for Halloween, and sat by my bed after I had surgery. If there is one major influence in my life, it's my mother. She's strong when she needs to be, but one of the most caring people I've ever met. Plus I tend to look like her, so...
I wish I had a picture of my father when he was a kid, but I don't. You'll just have to imagine a tall man with black hair and green eyes. I know I complain about my father quite a bit, but the truth remains that he is one of the hardest working men I know. He worked security for the majority of his life. Every now and then, they'd do trainings and he'd have to get pepper spray in his face. He'd simply say, "It's not pleasant," and that was it. If something needs to be fixed in the house, he's the one to do it. He has also been there for dance, band, and weird phases. We've built a model plane and practically every shelving unit in our house. He's shown me around my car's engine, and held my hand as I re-learned to walk after surgery. He, too, is a major guiding light in my life.
End of sappy-time.
