I think I’ve been looking at generational cycles too literally.

I always imagine the cycle as pure repetition. Dad did this, so I do this. Maybe one or both of his parents fucked him up in some particular way, so he turns around and fucks up his kids in basically the same way. Same shit, different decade.

But that can’t be the whole thing, because I’m not exactly like Dad. In some ways, sure, but in a lot more ways, I’m doing the opposite of what he did. That’s what I’ve been trying to do my whole damn life.

I look inward. Probably a bit too much. I question why I do things, where a feeling came from, whether I’m being fair, whether I’m secretly full of shit. I can think something absolutely to death and still believe one more angle might finally make the whole thing click.

Dad didn’t seem to look inward in the same way.

So, maybe the behavior isn’t what gets passed down. Maybe it’s the emergency.

One person drinks because something inside them feels unbearable. Somebody else tries to keep everybody happy. Another person gets angry. Somebody disappears. And maybe I sit here dissecting everything everybody does until I understand it well enough to feel safe.

Different coping mechanisms for the same ole alarm. (That thought bothered me immediately after I committed it to paper, because I like thinking of introspection as one of the things I’m doing right!)

And I do think I’m doing something right. I don’t want to flatten that just because I found another uncomfortable angle. Looking inward has helped me. I’m willing to question myself and change my mind and admit when I was wrong, even when I would very much prefer the evidence cooperate with my original opinion. That’s a good thing. It is.

But I can also see now how easily overthinking becomes another version of that old vigilance. Watch closer. Figure it out. Find the pattern. Understand why it happened. Keep going until there’s nothing left that can surprise me.

If I can just explain all of it, then maybe some stupid little part of my brain still gets to believe “it” could’ve been controlled. (“It” being this crazy life.) That there was a correct answer. That somebody could’ve done the right combination of things and gotten a different result.

Breaking a generational cycle is more complicated than being different from the person before you.

You can become the opposite of somebody and still be reacting to them. You can even become better. That’s the part I don’t want to lose. Sometimes people really do change. They understand more, hurt people less, make better choices. I sure hope I do.

But maybe being better than what came before you creates its own blind spot. Maybe every generation really does get a little better at cleaning the family mirror. You wipe away some of the grime the last generation left there, and suddenly you can see a helluva lot more than they ever could.

That really is progress. But a clearer reflection still isn’t necessarily a truer bluer one if nobody ever realized the glass itself was warped. And I think that’s what scares me.

Not that I haven’t changed. That I might change a lot, see a lot more clearly, understand exactly why the people before me couldn’t see what they were doing, and still have something underneath all that insight bending the picture.

Maybe generational inheritance doesn’t always look like repetition. Sometimes it looks enough like progress that you stop checking the mirror.

inspo: thinking myself to death, as per usual // generational cycles that mutate instead of repeat // different coping mechanisms for the same ole alarm // maybe the inheritance isn’t the habit; maybe it’s the emergency // overthinking as vigilance // becoming the opposite of someone & still letting them set the terms // wondering if insight can become its own blind spot // warped mirrors & cleaner reflections // mostly, the uncomfortable possibility that understanding something can start to feel like controlling it

At long last, my memoir, I Wore the Names: What Was Never Mine to Carry, is written, published, and out in the world. You can grab a copy on Amazon, and follow me on Facebook for book updates, giveaways, sales, and the occasional chance to snag it discounted or completely free.

Kinsey Keys

aspiring memoirist rummaging through my noggin, stubbornly clutching the past to my chest like it’s a newborn babe starved for mother's milk.

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