This is a Really Real Extended Family post.
This is a post about being estranged from birth family.
This post contains politics, differing beliefs, pain of loss.
Today, my Facebook and photo memories were full of pictures with my niece and nephews.
Without planning it, my sister, the kids and I, tended to get together around this time every year.
I had 3 pictures in a row of me holding my first nephew. Each year around his birthday I was lucky enough to see him, and get a picture as he aged.
I had 2 pictures with my niece, a year younger than her brother.
One picture with the youngest, a year younger than his sister.
The last time I saw them was just over a year ago, before the pandemic was even a thing.
We would regularly talk over video chat. My sister lining all 3 kids up in high chairs at the table and sitting the phone where I could talk with them all.
My sister and I have very different beliefs. She is a conservative born again Christian, super into a her MLM essential oils and anti science including vaccinations, and I am super liberal and queer.
We managed to coexist. We avoided those topics. She didn’t seem to judge me for my life and the way I lived it.
As the election got closer, she began posting more and more about her beliefs.
She posted an article that someone connected queer folk to pedophiles. She posted articles against transwomen, and trans rights. She became more verbal with the beliefs that directly hurt me.
I distanced myself more and more, unfollowed her so that she would no longer show up in my feed. I’d occasionally check her page for pictures of the kids. I enjoyed watching them grow.
It’s been 6 months since a video chat. She had the kids call me shortly after my dad died, to give me something to smile about.
She posted and texted me around the time that Trump was getting banned from various social media outlets. Telling me that because of something she posted, they were shutting down her Facebook in 24 hours and I could contact her via text.
I didn’t respond, I knew that Facebook doesn’t give you warning, she was just feeding into the political bullshit.
A few weeks later she was back on Facebook, I knew because she was reacting to my posts again.
I realized I was censoring my posts, not wanting to start family drama, not wanting to alienate anyone, not wanting to call her out on her bullshit.
I added her to my restricted list, she can no longer see what I post. At the same time I did the same with my youngest sister, and made sure my mom was still on the list as well.
I’ve slowly gone no contact with the family I lived with for the first 17 years of my life.
I didn’t make some big announcement, I haven’t addressed any of it with them.
I last heard from my Mom on Christmas, we exchanged 2 or 3 mundane texts. Before that it was Birthday wishes from her.
She’s even further down that rabbit hole of QAnon. Her beliefs aren’t just against who I am as a person, they are downright scary. She jumps from one conspiracy theory to the next, I had to tell her point blank to stop sending me messages about them. It took her awhile to listen.
My youngest sister is doing well, as far as I know. She doesn’t advertise her beliefs so I have no idea where she stands, but she’s so involved with the other two that it just feels safer to distance myself there as well. Every few months she messages to see how I’m doing, but rarely responds to what I say.
It’s painful. The memories are painful. The fact that I have to sacrifice the relationship with my niece and nephews is hard, probably one of the hardest parts of this.
But, I have an amazing chosen family. I am surrounded by people who choose to love me for who I am.
And I’m thankful for that.
Parenting
That voice
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
Today is the last day without my dad home. Here is what it was like in my head as I made lunch.
Grab the bag of salad out of the fridge. (I hear my dad’s voice, “Why did you put that on that shelf? I don’t put things there.”)
Grab a Tupperware container to mix the salad in (His voice again, “Why would you use a container that big, it’s not that much salad.”)
Pour the salad in the container. “You’re making a mess.”
Close the lid and shake the salad up. “It’s going to spill all over the place.”
Get a knife and fork to cut chicken off the bone. “Why are you using that knife? Get one of the sharp ones.”
Grabbing paper towels to put over the chicken so it doesn’t splatter. “You don’t need to use that many paper towels.”
Shut the microwave too hard. “Be careful! You don’t need to beat things up.”
Rinse the utensils in the sink “Don’t turn up the water so high, it’ll splash everywhere. And make sure you’re using hot water.”
You see, even when I’m home, I hear my dads voice with almost everything I do. It’s the sound of my critical voice, the voice that tells me I can’t do anything right.
But now I’m in his house, his space. The voice is so much louder here.
And with every sentence I heard him say, I was, in my head, offering up a rebuttal.
“Dad, it doesn’t really matter where things are on the shelves, it’s fine”
“Dad, I’m going to wash the container when I’m done with it, it’s fine.”
“Dad, I’ll clean up any mess I make, it’s fine.”
“Dad, that was an accident, it’s fine.””Dad, I can buy more paper towels, it’s fine.”
And finally. “Damnit, Dad. If I’m going to spend this much time here, I’m going to treat this like it’s my home too. Chill the fuck out or I won’t be able to do this.”And then I cringed, because I can’t imagine saying something like that to my dad. But also, I’m pretty sure I’ll have to say some version of that, within a day or two after I bring him home.
Years and years of being criticized loudly for everything I did, that voice is just there. And it doesn’t matter if he’s still that critical of me, it doesn’t matter if he says this stuff out loud.
That voice won’t stop, the one that makes me think that everyone is judging everything I do.
That voice, the one that used to ‘jokingly’ say “Dad is great, dad is good, lets thank dad for everything.”
Even after he dies, his voice will live on in my head.
I wonder how much of my mental health bullshit was caused by that voice?
I wonder why parents think its okay to raise children like that. Why they treat young people like they are somehow less than. That they aren’t worthy, that they need to be sternly micromanaged with everything they do.
I wonder why kids are held to a higher standard than most adults.
I hope, so very much, that I’m not this voice in my own sons head. I hope when he hears my voice, he hears love and approval.
I never heard that from my dad.
I just heard that voice.
They grow up
This is a Really Real Parenting post.
I’ve been sitting on this one for awhile.
Mulling it over and under and around. Letting it float in my head. Taking undefined thoughts and turning them into words and sentences, so that I can put fingers to keys.
I miss my son.
Not just because I haven’t seen him, but also because he’s growing up, and growing more distant.
It’s developmentally appropriate of course.
“This is developmentally appropriate behavior.”
That was my mantra while he was growing up. As frustrating and annoying and difficult he could be, his behavior was always exactly what it should have been, even when I didn’t like it. (My son?!? Noooooo, not my son! He was a constant pleasure to be around, of course.)
And now is no different.
I was incredibly lucky that for his first 2 years living so far away, we talked almost daily via Messenger. He called me every week, often reminding me that it has been a whole week since we talked last.
We were close before he left (even though we fought horribly) and we were closer after he left.
But time has passed, the world has changed, and he’s settled into his life out there.
And it felt like overnight we went from chatting daily, to chatting every week or two. From weekly phone calls, to monthly phone calls.
This is developmentally appropriate behavior.
And still, that doesn’t make it easier.
I had a dream last night, that I was in the basement where I lived pre-parenthood. I remember how fun it was to live my life without the constant oversight and judgement that came from my parents.
Of course, I got pregnant, and there went the carefree life of early adulthood. (Don’t worry, I’m making up for it now.)
He’s living out that time in his life. That carefree life of early adulthood.
And I have no interest in holding him back.
It’s hard though. I’m always afraid that he’s realizing how much I fucked up while he was growing up, and that he’s distancing himself from me because of it. I worry that I’m becoming that obligatory phone call that he dreads.
I don’t believe that he owes me phone calls. I don’t believe that he owes me anything, honestly, because I brought him into this world and it was my job to raise him. He doesn’t owe me because I put that time into raising him.
It’s a type of grief, a type of loss, as he grows up and our relationship changes.
This is developmentally appropriate behavior.
He doesn’t need me in the same way anymore, and that’s good stuff right there.
I raised an adultier adult.
And when this is all weighing heavily on me, and I miss him so much that it hurts . . . I get a random text message. . .
A song that made him think of me.
A song that brings tears to both of our eyes.
He ends the message with, “I love you, Mom.”
Of course, I respond, and he never replies, but . . .
This is developmentally appropriate behavior.
Parenting is hard when they’re little. It’s hard when they’re growing up and fighting against you with everything they have.
But I feel like it’s a different kind of hard when they are grown.
And I guess my feelings are developmentally appropriate too.
I still get mad.
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
I still get really, fucking, angry sometimes.
The rage building up over the stupidest things.
The fucking Tupperware cabinet.
That, fucking, Tupperware cabinet.
Some back story here. Back when Parker was alive I physically couldn’t get down on the ground (or I wouldn’t get back up) and therefore it was almost impossible for me to organize the Tupperware cabinet. I asked Kidlet and Parker to keep up with it. They didn’t.
I did the dishes a lot of the time (from what my memory recalls at least) and I’d go to put Tupperware away and it would all fall out at me, and I’d throw a temper tantrum.
I’m sure most of you have a cabinet like that. At least I hope it’s not just me.
Parker and I used to play video games and use voice chat to talk to our friends, and one day she was on the group chat, and I was putting away dishes, and that fucking cabinet attacked me.
And I went off.
Throwing things, screaming, yelling, cussing, generally acting ridiculous.
And our friends heard most of it.
Whoops.
For at least 3 years after that they would send me every damn Tupperware meme they could find. They were even making their own memes to send me. They would yell “fucking Tupperware” whenever they died in game. It was the biggest (most embarrassing) joke we had in that guild, for a really long time. I still have one friend from that group who sends me a meme once a year or so.
Fast forward to today.
I can get on the floor to organize the Tupperware cabinet, but I be damned if I feel like doing it.
So today the Tupperware attacked me.
A few things had happened before it (can’t remember what) and I was just grumpy.
But grumpy turned to Really Really Pissed.
I may have cussed a little. I may have repeatedly thrown lids and containers back into that cabinet with something falling back out at me a few times. I may have slammed the door shut.
But it lasted all of 30 seconds.
I’m sad that I reacted that way, but I’m glad it’s not the norm anymore, and I’m glad it doesn’t last like it used to.
I’m glad I don’t treat people like that anymore.
I’ll apologize to Wonder Woman when she gets home, not because I directed anything at her, but because it wasn’t right for me to put that sort of anger and tension in a space we share.
Anger is fine, frustration is fine, but throwing and slamming shit isn’t fine.
I’m a lot better than I used to be. I have a lot of skills that I didn’t have then and generally, less frustration in my life overall.
I think I’m going to go organize that cabinet now.
Vacation
This is a Really Real Widow Post.
But also a bit of Mental Health thrown in there.
We never took vacations.
It’s one of my big regrets from Parker and I, but also from Kidlet’s childhood.
There was the year we traveled from Maryland to Florida to see our families. That was our only family vacation in the 8 years we were together.
I think once we came from Florida, to Maryland, tagging along with my mom. I guess that was a vacation. During that trip we managed to go over to DC for part of a day. Parker had never been to D.C. and she absolutely loved it.
A few years later when we were living in the homeless shelter up here, we met her family in D.C. for the day while they were on their vacation.
But vacations weren’t really on our radar.
Keeping the lights on, paying off the rent before the eviction notice expired, stretching the food stamps by making it to the food pantries on time. Making it to countless doctors appointments.
Those were the things we worried about.
But not vacations.
Wonder Woman and I leave for vacation tonight. I can’t count the number of overnight trips and vacations we’ve had in the 2 years we’ve been together. This is a belated anniversary trip, something we wanted to do, but couldn’t quite afford to do in September, so we were able to put aside some money and make it happen a bit late.
We’re going to a cabin in the mountains. The mountains are Wonder Woman’s place, she loves the cold. Mine is the beach and the warmth.
We’ve done lots of beach trips, it’s time to hit the mountains. I guess I can bundle up for a few days.
We have a fireplace in our cabin, and there are fire pits in the resort.
I guess I can handle that.
I still have great memories of going to the beach over Christmas on our first vacation. Hanging out in front of the fire together.
I look forward to repeating that.
I still feel weird taking vacations. I still have to remind myself that I deserve nice things. That I deserve happiness. That I deserve to travel and have these experiences.
That I deserve stability.
I’m so used to struggle that it’s hard to settle into stability.
It’s hard to feel comfortable with packing for a trip. It’s hard to avoid overthinking it.
It’s hard to find the balance between “bring absolutely everything you might need” and “if you forget something you can just buy it.”
It’s hard to find the balance between over planning/letting anxiety win and waiting for the last minute/letting anxiety win.
It’s hard to find the balance between being thankful for what I have now, and grieving what I didn’t have then.
We never took vacations.
I deserve this life.
Adultier Adult
This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.
I had a conversation in therapy about the fact that I don’t feel like an adult.
My therapist asked why I don’t see myself as a grown up. I started listing off reasons.
I don’t have a car.
I don’t have a job.
I’ve always needed financial help.
I’m not independent.
I can’t budget my own money successfully.
I’m not successful.
I haven’t finished college.
I can’t hold a job even when I get them.
I can’t finish anything I start.
I just kept listing off one thing after another.
I told her I felt that my son was more of an adult than I am. He is truly, the adultier adult, like we always joked about needing when he was younger.
She pointed out that I raised him.
I told her that was easy, he was an easy kid to raise, mostly. He did a lot of it himself, unfortunately, while I was busy helping us survive whatever bullshit I had gotten us into that week, or month, or year.
She asked me if I’d judge anyone else so harshly.
Of course not.
But this is me, and I’m “so smart” and “so intelligent” and I “should be making more of myself” and I’m not.
So how can I really be an adult.
I can’t even keep my sink clear of dishes. I can’t even stay caught up on school work (and it’s at a community college, it’s not like I’m working a full time job at the same time, most of the students are). I can’t even pay my bills on my own without spending too much money and needing to be bailed out again, and again, and again.
This all sounds very whiny.
I want to be so much more than I am. I want to be functional. I want to be . . . typical, for lack of a better word.
I want to be able to spend money on things I need and not get carried away by emotional spending to the point that I end up staring at a negative bank account for the third time in a month, begging for help, again. I want to be able to focus on the things I need to focus on and stop hyperfocusing on the things that don’t matter. I want a fucking car. I want to finish school. I want to be able to work and actually hold down a job.
I want to be a fucking adult.
I want to accomplish more in life then just surviving and keeping a kid alive until 18.
I want to do more.
I just want to grow up.
Give Them Wings
This is a Really Real Parenting Post.
“Landed.”
“Are you in another country now?”
“Yep”
Kidlet is 19 years old and he just took a solo trip out of the country. He planned it, got his passport, paid for the tickets, saved up the spending money, and is doing the thing.
“No time for a drink yet, the next flight boards soon.” He’s old enough to drink in Canada and is looking forward to buying his first (legal) adult beverage.
He still has 2 more flights until he arrives at his final destination, some online gaming friends he’s visiting for a few days.
And I couldn’t be prouder.
I was 21 when I made my first trip (mostly) alone, relying on some inheritance to take a road trip from Maryland to Texas. Kidlet riding along in his car seat, still in diapers. The Tarzan soundtrack kept us going through that trip. I belted out “You’ll Be In My Heart” every time it came on, singing it directly from my heart to him, unable to imagine a day that I wouldn’t be right there beside him. I couldn’t begin to see this far into the future.
But here we are.
“What’s your soundtrack for this trip?”
“Ride” (By Twenty One Pilots) “I’ve had that song playing in my head.”
I smile.
Three years ago, almost to the day, Kidlet and I took a road trip to NY. It was right after Parker died and we just needed to get away. We went to see one of my best friends, also someone I knew from online. When we started I had never heard “Ride” but we spent the trip playing music for each other and it was one that got played often. By the time we were driving back it had become one of my favorite songs. We belted out the lyrics together the whole way home.
“I love you Kidlet.”
“Love you more Mom.”
Love you more isn’t a competition, it means he loves me more than all of the miles and distance between us. It’s a reminder that no matter how far apart we are, we’re still together, we’re still close.
I realize how lucky I am to have this relationship with my son. I’m still not quite sure what I did right or how I did it in the middle of all the things that went wrong for us.
In the midst of our closeness I spent his life letting him stretch his wings whenever I could.
And he sure is using them to fly.
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