Dec. 8th, 2016

003.

Dec. 8th, 2016 09:22 pm
monstersinthecosmos: (Default)

It's amazing how Family Stuff can just blindside me sometimes. I should be used to it by now, especially because it's the family I was born with, and they've always been here. Somehow I still haven't gotten to the bottom of all the secrets and stories and sometimes you learn something that's so validating that you want to cry for hours.


Today I Learned: There was a period of years before my parents got together that my father was so crippled by his social anxiety that he spoke to no one.


My aunt told me this tonight over Mediterranean food. She's not my blood-aunt. She was married to my dad's brother for most of my childhood. They've been divorced for fifteen years, but I still have a relationship with her. I refuse to give her up. She's this bubbly, wonderful, tiny little Jewish lady, super New Yorker, and so sharp and empathetic and willing to be honest, and the way she kept pushing food on me like a nice Jewish mom made me feel more loved than I've felt in a long time.

But she and my cousin are in LA for a few days, so we made a night to get dinner. My cousin is schizophrenic, and my aunt is one of the only people in my family who understands the scope of my social anxiety, and the only one of the "adults" that I feel safe talking to about it. But I haven't seen her in a few years, and inevitably she asked how my brother was doing, and I had to tell her how he doesn't talk to me because he finds my anxiety disorder inconvenient, and how I haven't spoken to him or his family in years. And we got into a conversation about family patterns, and how many of them we've fallen into without even realizing it. I brought up how, last year, I learned that my grandfather could've had a career as entertainer, and written his own ticket, but was always too insecure to quit his dayjob (AKA: me with photography). Tonight I learn that my dad had years where his anxiety was completely unmanageable (AKA: me in general). And we talked about how ridiculous it is that my family is so Irish, so unwilling to share things with each other, so unable to talk about mental illness. How, even though this is something that in many ways makes my father my spiritual twin, we've never been able to openly discuss it.

So I come home on one hand feeling so relieved, that it's not just me, it's not my fault, that it came from somewhere. Also feeling so gutted that it took me this long to find out, feeling so hurt for him, wishing I called him more because we speak so rarely.


It's hard to know all this. I feel like it isn't my fault, but I also feel like it's entwined into my veins. It makes me feel like I'll never untangle myself.



Of course, I've desensitized myself almost to a point of functioning when it comes to the family subject, and I've been hardcore throwing myself into vampires so that I don't have to die from alcohol poisoning during the month of December (but let's not congratulate me too early, because I still have to make it through Christmas week all alone), and so somehow my drive home was marked by how bad I wanted to talk to Will about all this. Because as unfair as he could be, and however manipulative and petty he is, and no matter how strongly I know that cutting him off was the right thing to do, I can't help wanting him to talk me through this. Because he always would. He always knew what to say and he's one of the only people I've ever met who really got me. And it sucks to lose that.

I could hold onto this story for a more poetic telling one day, but I'll record it for history: A few weeks ago, when I finally told him I wasn't going to do it anymore, and I asked him to mail my Anne Rice books back to me, he threw it in my face that I care more about my stupid books than I do about him, which was already such a childish and unfair insult, but when I got them back in the mail he'd stuffed the package with all the artwork I'd made for him, torn to shreds. And it still hurts when I think about it, it hasn't quiet healed yet. And the artwork wasn't important, it wasn't the point. But that he felt like he had to rip pieces of me apart, and that he had to mail them to me so that I would see them, instead of just throwing them in the garbage.

And ironically, I didn't even throw the scraps away. I'm not sure why. It felt too brutal. But, this is normal. This is something I do. I surround myself by things that hurt me, because I obsess over my own pain. And I want to look at them and picture his hands tearing them to bits, and try to imagine how his face looked while it happened, and how it felt that he taped up the package and wrote my name on it and mailed it to me. He's the only man who's ever loved me and it came to that.



I'll put a time limit on it, like if I don't actually see my vision through I'll get rid of the package, but I think I might make more artwork with it. Like tape them back together, leave them rumbled in a shadowbox. Something. Something I can hang on the wall to remind myself who he really is. Maybe it'll finally teach me to stop forgiving him.



(on a happier note, the lulz of the day is: That awkward moment where you make a set of new blogs so that you can sideblog vampires and talk shit about your family anonymously, and all your new vampires friends are reblogging the vampire meme you posted on your IRL account. WHOOPS. THEY DON'T KNOW IT'S ME.)

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