Blah blah blah

Home For the Holidays

It’s amazing how insistent you are that I come back for Christmas. When was Christmas ever a big deal for us? You were usually working, and you were usually drunk. ­You were always stressed out and cranky, and someone always ended up yelling at someone else. You did nothing to help. Did you ever pick out a present for either of us? We knew we’d never get anything we wanted and no one would look forward to the day itself. The rest of the respective clans were on the other side of the country. Family didn’t mean anything to us. Why do you even want to spend time with me, anyway? When did that become a thing?

What even makes you think that I want to lose out on three weeks of work and spend thirty fucking hours in transit to see you? I don’t want to get all Cat’s in the Cradle here, but you had your chance. You had me for eighteen years, the eighteen years that actually counted, and you blew it. You couldn’t get it together to love me then, so you don’t get to love me now. And you sure as shit don’t get me loving you.

I know a lot of it is my fault, the issues that I’m dealing with. I don’t deny that. I’ve grown up enough to have mastered the art of admitting it when I’m in the wrong. I can recognize that a significant portion of my problems are either in my own head or stem from my own actions. I’ve made peace with that, and I’m working on it. I put in my time at therapy, I take my meds, I talk to friends, I pray, and I try every damn day to be a better person. I won’t let my past actions shape my future.

“Mary have mercy, now look what I've done
But don't blame me, because I can't help where I come from…”

 - Amanda Palmer

I didn’t spring fully-formed from some kind of magical pod, however. If I’m fucked up, you’re at least a little bit to blame. Some of this shit is your fault. I know you apologized for not knowing what to do to help me and I appreciate that, really, I do. I appreciate all the good things you did. I can honestly say there were more good elements than bad in my childhood. Right now, though, all I can see is the miserable, cold, lonely, unhappy parts. I’d like to take this opportunity to do a little finger-pointing and name-calling, just so you can see them, too.

I’m tired of being a good sport. I’m over looking at the bigger picture and being even-handed and fair. I am an angry, whiney little brat and this time you are going to sit there and listen to me and you don’t get to interrupt or rebut. You aren’t allowed a defensive address. You just have to sit there and listen and feel fucking terrible about yourselves as I point out everything you did wrong.

“All day I've been wondering what is inside of me?
Who can I blame for it? I say it runs in the family…”

You said you didn’t know what to do to help me, but you didn’t even try to figure it out. One visit to a therapist because of the cutting, and then we never spoke of it again. Huffing in frustration any time I’d mention the absolute hell I was going through at school that one year. Pretending not to notice the losers and creeps I’d take to my bedroom, pretending I wasn’t out opening my legs for half the goddamn town every weekend. Looking the other way when I went out and got blackout drunk, or stayed home and did the same damn thing by myself. Never mentioning the night of the Year 12 formal when I landed in the hospital because of drugs. Never bothering to notice or ask or try and get me to tell you what was going on. It was all too much trouble, wasn’t it? You weren’t willing to put in the effort, and you weren’t there for me. You let me down, and now I go through life waiting for everyone else I care about to inevitably let me down. Because of you, I can’t trust anyone, not really. If someone leaves, or isn’t there when I need them, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s no more than I should have expected.

“It runs in the family
This famine that carries me to such great lengths,
To open my legs up to anyone who'll have me
It runs in the family
I come by it honestly, do what you want
'Cause, who knows, it might fill me up…”

Because you hit me, I forged a twisted connection between love and pain. I have a secret desire to be with someone who hits me, did you know that? Did you know I’ve always thought what I really deserved was a partner who would show they loved me by giving me bruises? You said you didn’t understand when I used to cut myself. What is there to understand? I was bad, so you hit me and then we never talked about the bad parts and then things were better. I grew a little older and I did things that made me feel bad, so I hurt myself and never talked about it, and then things were better. It was so simple, and yet you never made the connection.

I don’t care that it wasn’t all the time. If I still remember it, then it counts. I don’t care that you had it so much worse growing up. I don’t care that it used to be the standard. It should have occurred to you that there was a better way, and you should have worked to find that way. It’s fucked up to discipline a child by hitting them with a belt. It is FUCKED UP. There is nothing OK about physically harming someone, anyone, to get your point across. If I saw one single bruise on any of the kids I teach, or heard them mention that their parents hurt them, I would be calling in DCFS quicker than you could say, “judged unfit.”

“Runs in the family
We tend to bruise easily, bad in the blood…”

Nothing I do will ever be good enough. Not ever. I know you thought you were doing the right thing, raising me to be humble and not vain or full of myself. You were cutting down the tall poppy, always making sure not to be too precious. God forbid I should ever exude confidence or feel pride in my achievements. I will tell you this: a child’s parents are the only ones who have a duty to make a fuss over that child, maybe not all the time, but at least some of it. If your parents don’t tell you you’re smart and pretty and kind and good, who else is going to? If your parents don’t tell you that stuff, when will you start telling yourself?

You set the worst possible examples with food. You never bothered to fix your own disordered eating and, as a result, I inherited it along with curly hair and anger issues. Thanks a whole lot for that. I hope I’m there for your heart attack, you fat greedy fuck. I hate that you’ve made me like this. I hate that I have to consider it an achievement when it’s been a few months since I made myself throw up. I hate that I can count on my fingers the number of holiday meals I’ve actually digested.

“Me? Well, I'm well. Well, I mean I'm in hell.
Well, I still have my health (At least that's what they tell me)
If wellness is this, what in hell’s name is sickness?”

You gave me the worst possible model of how relationships should be. Are you at all surprised that I’ve been divorced twice? How could marriage seem important to someone who grew up viewing it as an insignificant, vaguely unpleasant chore? I can’t remember ever seeing either of you tell the other that you loved them. I can remember only a couple of occasions of you kissing each other. How was I supposed to know that it mattered, that it was possible to be with someone who made you happy? And that you could make them happy, too? It never occurred to me that there could be another option besides dividing your time between being furious with each other and freezing one another out? How the fuck was I supposed to know what a successful relationship looked like, much less have one of my own? Because of you, I only ever fall for people who will ignore me or treat me badly. I accept the kind of love, such as it is, that I think I deserve, and I am looking down the barrel of a life lived alone.

I hate that I still have this well of rage bubbling up inside of me. You were both so angry, always so damn angry in your own special ways. Yelling and slamming and swearing and smashing, or sulking and avoiding and shunning. You couldn’t get it together to figure out how to deal with things like civilized human beings, but you thought it was OK to have kids and bring them up in that toxic environment? Well done, people. Gold fucking stars all around. I’m almost thirty and I’m teaching myself things that you should have taught me before I was out of primary school. Thanks for that.

“I'm telling you 'cause I just want you to know me,
Know me and my family, we're wonderful folks…”

Did you ever wonder why I left? I left as soon as I could, and I’ve been getting as far away as I can ever since. I hate our family. I hate that you couldn’t get it together to love each other or interact like normal adults. I hate the examples and precedents you set.

I hate it even more now that you’re nagging me to come back. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to spend time with you. I don’t want to be reminded of the shitty situation I came from. I’d rather pretend I didn’t have any family than actually spend time with you.

“Running is something that we've always done well
And mostly I can't even tell what I'm running from
I run from their pity, from responsibility,
Run from the country, and run from the city
I can run from the law, I can run from myself,
I can run for my life, I can run into debt
I can run from it all, I can run 'til I'm gone,
I can run for the office, and run from the cause
I can run using every last ounce of energy…”

Do you feel bad? Do you feel like failures? Do you feel guilt? Do you feel shame? I hope so. I hope you feel it deep down inside, so far down that you know you’ll never be able to wash it away.

You are the worst parts of me. You are everything I wish I weren’t.

“I cannot run from my family, they’re hiding inside me

Corpses on ice

Come in if you like, but just don’t tell my family…”