Family

Family

I didn’t know when I would leave, but I knew it was coming. The hurt was so intense every time I visited, I couldn’t stand straight. The knife stuck into my heart would soon twist, by whom I didn’t know.

I was ready.

It surprises me every time I think of the word family. It’s supposed to mean unconditional love, as if loving arms wrap around you every time you need them, but that is not what family means to me anymore.

It has taken time to get here. A place where bare, raw, wounded bits of my soul strewn around me and I don’t know how to pick them up because they are not real, yet they feel like a ton, and I am too weak to carry them.

I’ve known it was coming, yet ignored it for a long time. I can’t think of the exact moment that made me weary of family gatherings like Christmas, Thanksgiving, summer barbecues, or birthday parties, yet I am sad every time I think of those events. Something always goes wrong and I, being the eldest child, try to mend the pieces that cannot be mended.

The compound effect of those visits coupled with anxiety about a new boyfriend meeting my family mixed with my current job situation makes the whole family ideal less than I can handle.

My sadness turns to grief as I realize the best place for me is not with them. My family has said mean things, done mean things, and treated my future spouse terribly, yet I keep coming back. I keep showing up for these gatherings like an abused dog peeing on the floor while his owner smacks him on the nose for doing something bad hours ago.

Yes, I can relate to the abused dog. I’ve done bad things years ago and somehow it keeps coming back to haunt me at every family gathering when alcohol flows like water and voices grow in intensity.

No, I didn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t even say terrible things to anyone, but my birth order has made for some tense moments during my younger years. They say birth order has to do with kings and their heirs, yet in my family, the eldest meant you grew up faster than your current age permitted. When you live on a farm, chores need to be done, and after you leave the farm, more responsibilities means more people need to get things done. You’re delegated because you’re the oldest, the most capable to do a task and complete it without being told a second or third time.

Maybe I don’t understand why they say mean things. We could discuss why they say these hurtful things. Maybe then, I would understand where this hatred comes from because every time they say something mean, it feels like a wild pitch across the plate that I’m not prepared for right now. I’m at a loss to figure it out and believe me I’ve tried.

I’m an analytical person. I like numbers and symmetry, order and rules, so when I took a job working in high-stress insurance slash construction, no one in my family understood why I would put myself through the torture for a paycheck.

The job was stressful, but I found comfort in the order. When things went sideways, I believed I had control. Disasters happen, natural or otherwise, and I felt compelled to help.

Why working this job bothers my family is beyond my ability to comprehend. I even changed jobs for a while, yet it changed nothing. One day when offered a position at a competitor company, I took the job. It had better hours, better pay, an overall better position, so I accepted without giving it much thought.

The next family gathering, when I told everyone about my new job, the response was negative. I ended up leaving the dining room, locking myself in the bathroom until I could look presentable again, before saying goodbye to my mother and driving away.

She tries to stick up for me, though.

“It’s what she enjoys,” she says.

My favorite one. “Leave her alone, it’s her life; let her make her own mistakes.”

These statements only make me feel worse, and I stop talking altogether.

After the meal was devoured and the dirty plates taken to the kitchen, I scrape the remnants into the garbage as my mother packs reusable containers for each of us to take home.

“It’s far too much food for your father and me. You won’t have to cook this week,” she says as she scoops our favorites into the washed out margarine containers she keeps for these times.

My siblings and their spouses are in the living room with my dad, watching whatever sports game is on. It’s only mom and I in the kitchen cleaning up. She washes and I dry.

She asks about work. I shrug, not wanting to say much yet wanting to spill the details. She knows me well and pries bits and pieces out of me until I’m talking non-stop. I talk about the new opportunity and what they offered me the first week and the people I work with, and how happy I am to be there. I rub it in thicker than normal because I want her to see I made an excellent decision, the right move for me.

She nods, says little as I continue to tell details of my life since the last gathering, knowing she won’t break my confidence, yet somehow forgetting that’s how the mess got started in the first place because she said something she shouldn’t have to my siblings and now they are mean to me and I want to go home.

The knot in my stomach clenches like a fist when I hear footsteps come into the kitchen. My brother wants dessert and wonders how long we’ll be cleaning up before he can have mom’s incredible berry pie.

“We’ll be done soon. It would go much faster if you could help. We never have enough hands in here for cleanup.” Her guilt trip doesn’t work on him.

“I can’t help wash dishes, I’m so full I can hardly stand up.” He rubs his belly and winks at me.

Mom pulls soap-covered hands out of the dishwater, turns to him, and says, “You have got to be kidding me. And you want pie? Where on earth are you going to put it?” She raises the eyebrow I remember as a kid. It means, “Try again because I don’t like that answer you just gave me.”

“What?” He says and walks back to the living room without picking up a rag.

“Some things never change,” I say, putting the clean turkey platter on the island.

“Never do and never will,” mom says. “I told him to bring something this time, and he said he’ll bring beer. I told him to bring chips and dip at least. Did you see chips and dip here today? No, you did not because he didn’t bring them. That wife of his is just as lazy as him.”

“Free food, mom, it’s always been about free food. It’s their way of getting out of making dinner.”

“Yeah, well, I’m tired of preparing for two weeks prior to this little shindig. It’s getting old.”

She leans on the edge of the sink. Her tired face says it all. “I love having all of you home for the holidays, but it sure takes a toll on my body. I make a dish every day getting ready for everyone to come home and then pull everything out of the freezer two days prior to your getting here. I orchestrate the whole thing let me tell you. It’s as if I’m cooking for a wedding every holiday. I wish someone else would take their turn sometime.”

I force a smile. “No way am I having them over to my house. Besides, they wouldn’t drive all the way there when your house is so much closer. Did I not bring enough this time?”

Her tired eyes sparkle. “It’s not you, honey, I’ve tried every holiday to get your siblings to bring more dishes with them, and you see what we have. Absolutely nothing. If I don’t make it, we don’t eat it. And I don’t mean your dishes they were amazing. I loved those carrots, give me the recipe, dad just devoured them.”

I nod. “I’ll email it to you, but it seems so unfair. You and I cook, set up, and clean up, and no one else lifts a finger? I’m tired of this. I’m prepared to cancel next holiday and not show up.”

Her face registers terror as her eyes widen and I realize I’ve gone too far. She loves cooking for the holidays and having us all home. It would destroy her if one of us didn’t show up for a gathering.

“You don’t mean that.” Her voice low and crackly.

I nod, staring at the etched glass salad bowl as I dry the inside, watch streaks appear, and rub again.

“I’m tired. You’re tired. This whole thing is a joke. I don’t enjoy their company. They are users, and I’m done being used. We have nothing in common except for you and dad and I’m done being the help.”

Even though I kept my tone even, I spat a few while others just a whisper. I got my point across because a soapy hand clutched my arm as if I were a life preserver. “You will not talk like that in this house. You will come to every family gathering and take part as if it was your own party. You will not abandon your family.”

I stare at her, feeling the knife twist, the pain exploding throughout my body, and I could not hold my tongue for one more second.

“You will not tell me what to do anymore. I choose not to be in this family for these reasons. I will not be told who to love, where to work, what to do, or what to wear, as well as a long list of other items. Let go of my arm, so I can leave this house and not come back.”

She let go of my arm as a tear ran down her cheek.

I put the half-dried salad bowl on the island and calmly walked to the front door. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t slam the door. I didn’t even shed a tear. I just walked out and drove away.

Just like every other family gathering that ended badly.

When I remember that day, driving home with numbness so void, so empty, nothing could fill it.

My family is broken because of my actions. That’s what my left-brain told me, wallowing in the pity of being the black sheep.

My right brain whooped it up. It was a joyous occasion on that side. “We’re free,” It said in a singsong voice.

My body oscillated between both sides. One moment my vision blurred, a tear-stained face, my rib cage hurt from the convulsive sobs, yet the next moment, I stood in my Wonder Woman pose scolding myself for having a pity party of one. Strength oozed from my pores like toothpaste, giving me the confidence to look forward, not back.

All the pain and hurtful words and ostracizing didn’t hurt as much as seeing my mother’s face streaked with tears as I walked out of the room.

Is that what I wanted to remember? Her crying and upset with me for leaving the family?

What was I to do?

I waited for the phone to start ringing. Maybe an angry email from a sibling would appear in my inbox. Someone would want to know why I left without saying goodbye.

While you’re waiting for one plan to bubble to the surface, another one takes its place. Without warning, a new friend appeared in my life. A friend so understanding and kind, the relationship left my family in the dust.

Without looking for it, a new connection appeared where I least expected it. A man so sweet, his words soothed my soul like honey on warm toast.

He loved everything about me from the start. He found my work fascinating; he found my hobbies interesting; he complimented me on every outfit, every hairstyle, and every laugh I uttered.

The things my family didn’t enjoy about me, he encouraged me to do it more often.

The dichotomy left me speechless. I wondered why this unfamiliar man was so interested in me. Was this a terrible joke? Too good to be true? Of course, he would soon realize, just like everyone else, that I was not who I pretended to be, and he’d leave too. My world worked this way.

I have since realized that after so many years together, that is the farthest thing from the truth.

My world changed when I walked out my parent’s door only to open another one to my soulmate. I am thankful every day when I see his smiling face lying next to me. I am grateful he chose me out of any other woman.

He chose me.

He has never met my family and doesn’t think it would matter now that we’ve been together for so long, but when asked if I miss them, my answer is…

No.

I have found my path without them, without the terrible, mean-spirited words, hateful comments, and teasing jibs, I’ve found my happiness with a man who loves those things about me and encourages my youthful spirit because it makes him happy to see me happy.

He knows if I reconciled with my family, I may or may not be happy so right now, in this moment, I am right where I am supposed to be, and I like it here very much.