The thing I find most frustrating is that bad childhoods are a dime a dozen. Everyone’s got stories and most of them are much worse than mine. But then, at least from the outside, most people seem to get to leave that shit in the past. Like, yes, things really sucked back then, but then I got out and I pondered my life and I realized how the shittiness affected me and I came to accept it and I moved on.
But very few people talk about what it’s like when you grow up and become an adult and your family is still comprised of ridiculous assholes. Only it’s worse because now you have to pay attention to them or they’re doing dumbass crap that can put them in the poorhouse or wind them up dead.
I really don’t know how to manage loving and adoring and worrying over these fucking fuckers.
It’s one of the things I appreciate about Jo writing about her family. Lots of people have managed big, dramatic “fuck you, I’m never talking to you again” moments. But it’s nice to read someone else struggling with “god damn, will you break my heart every time or just every other time?”
I don’t know. It’s stupid, I know, to be this upset over what is, basically, four feet of garden. But every week, I upload pictures of my garden to Facebook for them to see. When they come visit, I like to talk about and show them what I’m growing where. I don’t know how many more ways I could have said, “This is important to me and brings me joy.”
And I’d like to think, as my dad’s daughter, that when I continually say, “this is important to me and brings me joy,” that a little, just a little, effort would be made on his part to not take a van and a camper right through the middle of it. Or, if that is for some reason impossible, for him to call me and say, “I’m sorry, but the only way to get the camper out of the yard was to take it through the flower bed. I didn’t want you to just come home and find it that way.”
But why would he do that when he can be clear to Arkansas long before I notice?
This, folks, is why I have forbidden them to read the blog. Not that anyone but my mom would. I don’t come from a family of big readers. And I know that, if my mom wants to do something, my dad will keep her from doing it if there’s any pretense. So, my saying “Don’t read the blog,” since he doesn’t want to, means he keeps her from it.
But I have forbidden them from reading it for exactly this reason. Because they have no respect for the things I love, that bring me joy, and they will ruin it because they cannot see it as important.
Anyway, yes, over twelve hours later and I’m still livid and hurt.
The rest of my week is filled with visitors, all of whom have said how much they’re looking forward to seeing my garden. Instead, they will get to see the giant gap where my dad drove his van through it.
That is so tight a metaphor for my whole fucking life that you shouldn’t even be able to call it a metaphor. There’s nothing ‘meta’ about it. It’s just the phor of my life.