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Thanksgiving

Call me old-fashioned, but you’d be wrong. I love hand-written journals as much as the next person, but honestly isn’t there something more efficient about typing? Perhaps I’d document my life more effectively if it didn’t take so long to get it all on paper. I don’t allocate enough time to myself in that way. I write occasionally and never make a habit of it; I get absorbed in the day-to-day. I’ve come to an impasse. I desperately need therapy. That’s not readily available, however, and I simply cannot do nothing. Perhaps regularly and thoughtfully articulating what I’m feeling, and committing more time to listening to myself will be an adequate, albeit temporary, substitute.

The events that transpired on Thanksgiving weigh heavily on my heart and mind. Do you know the story of the frog in the boiling pot? The anecdotal tale is an unfortunate one. Imagine a frog resting in a pot of cool water. Someone’s just turned the stove on, and the water gradually warms. The frog, rather than wasting energy hopping from the pot, instead decides to allocate its energy to adapt to the warmer water. By the time the water grows too warm to adapt to, the frog has already expelled the energy required to exit. Unable to escape, the poor creature perishes.

My family, collectively and as individuals, have slowly been raising the temperature. I kept asking myself “Why do you subject yourself to this treatment? Why don’t you simply leave? Surely you did nothing to warrant this,”. I continually tried to make it work. I thought if I could just learn to enjoy the scalding water, all would be well. I so badly wanted unconditional love, I allowed the mistreatment to continue. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Being excluded is an awful thing, and it does often drive the victim to try all the harder to be included. This often just perpetuates and exacerbates the issue. What an awful cycle.

I do sometimes like to imagine myself holding the child that endured this into adulthood. I imagine myself smoothing her hair, and kissing her temple. I wish I could tell the small girl who couldn’t understand it all that it wasn’t her fault. That she is worthy of love, though not a soul at the time did. She was absolutely deserving of love. Rather, the people she loved so fiercely despite the way they treated her were unworthy.

I remember that little girl wondering why her cousins and half-sisters met so often with the whole family, and why she and her brother weren’t invited. I remember the moment she realized her family would be missing her high school graduation for a weekend at a cabin they owned; although it was her graduation weekend, she also wasn’t invited to stay at said cabin. I remember when she went to brunch one Sunday and happened upon her family having their meal in the banquet room. I remember that little girl looking around the room as Christmas presents were distributed, and realizing she had only a card and a paste, clearance necklace. Some relatives had so many gifts, she could not even see their person. When she became embarrassed and hurt, she was lectured about maturity and being ungrateful. Unfortunately, the list is far from complete.

This little girl began to reclaim her happiness. It wasn’t a straightforward journey and involved a lot of pain. However, she worried less about what they thought and began to do as she wished instead. Christmas 2016, she traveled to Datil, New Mexico. Her aunt, Lisa, was furious and called her to leave aggressive voicemails. The trip itself wasn’t great, and that winter was a difficult time for her. She’d lost her job, her health, and her boyfriend cheated on her. It was a lot to deal with, and in comparison, her aunt being angry was of little consequence. Call it a rebirth, but that little girl shed other people’s expectations, molted and grew, and became the woman I am today.

Carrie Fisher died on December 27th. It was unexpected and devastating. She was and still is a hero of mine. I took to Facebook to share my grief. Lisa’s husband, Joe, commented. It wasn’t to comfort me or empathize. No, he felt it was an appropriate time to demand I contact Lisa and explain my behavior. Can you imagine demanding a woman you barely know, to do something under a post about bereavement? This entitled behavior “adults” exhibited in the family initiated the chasm between they and I. I use quotations here to emphasize the them-and-us mentality they have towards the eldest cousins. While adults in our own right, we were treated as children.

It was an easy decision to remove all family members from my Facebook. I also elected to ignore my uncle’s demand until I was ready to speak with Lisa about the holidays. We intermittently spoke throughout the year. I updated her on my health progress, job search, and mental capacities. Anxiety and depression can be quite debilitating. They don’t believe in mental disorders. How silly to think this important organ is exempt from illness, while any other can be afflicted with many. I do believe she tried to be understanding, but at the end of the day, her internalized views overpowered her love for me.

I’m still trying to understand what happened just days ago. It’s like trying to remember a car accident. There are snippets, select words, and phrases I can recall. Some of the exchange is lost to me. Like with a lot of trauma, the core incident won’t ever be forgotten.

I don’t believe Seth ever understood my apprehension when it came to family events. He’d seen firsthand how awful my mother could be. But my dad’s side seemed normal. Coming from such a loving and welcoming family, I don’t think he had the capacity to truly understand. Unable to deprive him of the opportunity to see his family, we decided to try and go to all three events. We started at his aunt’s home and enjoyed it. I’d been anxious throughout the morning, and dreading 2/3 of the day. That soon past, and I had hope for the rest of the day.

We arrived an hour or so after Lisa had said food would be served. I knew this and resolved myself to eating at my mom’s later. Although I was hungry and was sure Seth was too, I made no indication of this. While most families on Thanksgiving would never let a mouth go unfed, no matter how late their arrival, I knew better.

Lisa made this clear as she tupperwared the leftovers around me, “I hope you’re eating at your mom’s later.”

I confirmed this and continued to answer my grandparents’ usually inquiries about my life. I received the down-low on the cooking crisis: a dish that set off the fire alarm. Light and small conversations, just how the Hanson’s like.

“Did you eat at Seth’s Family’s?” Grandpa Denny inquired kindly.

“We snacked, but haven’t eaten yet. That’s okay, we’ll be eating shortly at my mom’s.”

My answer, of course, didn’t matter. My grandparents are kind people. They understand that Thanksgiving is a day about family and full-bellies. It was unacceptable to them that I wouldn’t have a full meal until 6 pm. I don’t recall who said what to who, but soon it became clear that Lisa was angrily pulling things out of the fridge to make us a plate.

“It’s no big deal,” I tried once again to nip this in the bud.

Of course, she misconstrued this and growled: “No, it is a big deal.”

She continued speaking, and although I don’t remember her exact words, it dawned on me that she thought I’d demanded a plate. That I’d told her, essentially, that coming late and adding to her workload by asking for food was not a big deal. I do feel that given the circumstances, even if that’s what I had done, it shouldn’t have escalated as far as it did. It was doubly concerning that her perception of what was happening wasn’t even correct. I was being accused of something I hadn’t even done.

“I find it very rude that you show up late and demand food like this. I felt the need to say that,” She finished her verbal attack by throwing paper plates our way.

I was stunned, and tears brimmed. This is something I detest about myself. When I’m hurt, or yelled at, I cannot help but cry. Especially when I know it’s unjust. I can’t breathe and it’s terribly embarrassing. It makes me feel weak. People often say it invalidates any argument I present. Somehow, being emotional detracts from the validity of what I say.

“I feel the need to leave then,” I collected my sweater and made quick work of making my way to the door.

“Of course, you do,” she retorted.

I wish she had just let me leave. I wish she had simply started talking after I excused myself and realized her mistake. Instead, she trailed behind me. She demanded I stop. I told her adults make decisions for themselves, and I was making the decision to leave. My dad followed too, and both overcame me just outside the front door. She demanded I act like an adult and needed to calm down. My dad was kinder and instructed me to breathe. Like I said, I often forget when I’m upset.

The conversation continued. Or rather, her demands continued. She demanded I not swear. She demanded I stay. She demanded I become calm. All the while, she refused to let go of me. I protested this several times, and she refused to oblige. It did become clear to her that it wasn’t me who had asked. It didn’t matter. I was set on leaving, and I think she knew I’d never return. Her mistake had cost her a lot.

When hurt, people do funny things. She was probably hurt I was late. She was probably hurt that she didn’t get much help, and never does. She probably hurts often, and a lot. I recognize this and would be her most likely champion in this fight. Her beliefs and rigid traditions would never allow her to recognize this. Instead, she took her frustrations out on the easiest target.

To regain control, she finally exclaimed: “Get off my property!”

I obliged. It was, after all, what I’d been trying to do all the while. My dad called me, and I refused to slow down or look about. I was locked out of our car until Seth came with the keys. My dad approached me, and Seth was there moments after. Seth clasped my hand and my dad surprised me.

“She was wrong,” he said so matter-of-factly.

I informed him of my feelings. I intended to cut ties. I intended to omit my presence from future family gatherings. I’d be made to feel unwelcome for too long, and this was too much to forgive. They’d be excluded from my wedding, and wouldn’t be involved with any potential children. They refused to acknowledge how lonely they made me feel constantly, and while they decided things like my graduation weren’t important enough to attend, they were now investing in me to be the first to wed and provide them with the things they were so looking forward to.

He remained calm. He validated my feelings of exclusion. He was surprisingly helpful. He let me talk, and did what he could to offer advice. The things he suggested weren’t worthless, but they weren’t relevant. While “don’t make definite decisions while upset” is a solid tidbit, deciding to cut ties wasn’t a split-decision. I’ve been mulling this over since I was young. I’ve been sitting in the boiling water for too long. If I don’t leap now, I’ll die. There isn’t anything to further deliberate.

Perhaps to some, a yelling match between niece and aunt about leftovers seems silly. It would be a strange thing to emancipate one’s family over. It’s just another temperature shift in an otherwise inhospitable environment. It was no worse than any of the other things that transpired. It just happened to be the last thing.

I wonder if I’m being overdramatic. I do not understand why I’m expected to tolerate such great abuse, only to be called too emotional when I react. I think given the circumstances, I’m acting very appropriately. Yet, my mother teased me for it. She’s mocked me since and tried to invalidate what I was feeling.

“It’s always something with you,” she flippantly remarked.

My aunt’s reaction was the same.

She said to both me and Seth several times during the exchange “Everybody has their problems.”

She appears to be under the impression that I believe my burdens outweigh all others. Often, my mother has the same perception of me. Managing my illnesses involves a high level of self-care, and unapologetically doing what I need to feel my best. I think their generation misconstrues that as being selfish and narcissistic.

I think what’s truly narcissistic is displacing your own failings and expectations onto another person, and becoming frustrated when they don’t do what you expect.

As it stands, I keep feeling the need to reach out to her. I suppose I’m hoping for a reconciliation and fairy-tale ending. I understand that won’t happen. I’m still uncertain about to what extent I’ll interact with the family. The idea of never seeing my grandparents again is too much. I do understand seeing them will require meetings outside of the holidays they usually visit for. I also know it’ll require discussing what happened, and rebuffing them imploring me to reconsider.

Perhaps I’ve just leaped from one pot to another. Perhaps I’ll never be free.

#family #acceptance #journal #love #thanksgiving #disowned #struggle #politics #trumps america #fight #frog #abuse #emotional abuse #abondonment

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