Thank God I’m Home

I had a massive panic attack on my way to my parents, enough to make me still feel shitty and weird the next day.

It was fine. It was stupid. I got to the house and no one was there. I called my parents to tell them I’d arrived and my dad told me to put the porkchops that were on the counter in the fridge so that the dog wouldn’t eat them. I just moved them out of the reach of the dog. He’s not that bright.

When my dad got home, he was pissed at me for not putting the pork chops in the fridge because surely I could tell they were done thawing.

He also had a fight with his Bible app. The man lives in a home where you can reach out and touch a Bible anywhere in the house, but he’s fighting with an app and refusing to read his Bible verses because the app won’t work.

I am, as usual, bossy. I have made life hard for my brothers in ways I’m supposedly not aware of, because, I guess, as well as bossy, I’m thoughtless.

My cousins also made me feel like shit, so that was also fun. Not intentionally, mind you. But just in that I’m not married and don’t have kids so they either act like I can’t understand their lives or like I must be using the dog as some kind of child substitute.

And y’all know my feelings on “fur babies.” Rufus is not my son. The whole idea of it just grosses me out.

Probably I was the problem this time, because I was just all mushy headed from the panic attack. But I can’t stand how we’re all supposed to pretend like we have these great happy lives, when we’re all obviously miserable or on drugs or drinking.

And my cousins were massively upset and snide about there not being alcohol in my parents’ home–as if there has ever been alcohol in my parents’ home.

“But you and [the Butcher] drink!”

“Not here.”

I guess that was also somehow my fault, that I couldn’t convince my parents to let people have beer or wine in their house.

And I have been touched so fucking much that I truly don’t want another person to lay a hand on me for the rest of the year. It’s so invasive and it always feels like it’s some kind of bullying–to act as if I have no boundaries that matter.

And guess what! I don’t want people who hit me to ever touch me again. I don’t want people who stood by while I was hit to touch me.

I don’t know why that’s such a controversial position but it is.

And here’s the other thing that pisses me off. Let’s say everything they think about me is true. What am I supposed to do about it? This is the life I know how to lead. I can’t lead some other life that looks like they think it should look without… you know… putting them in charge of my life.

I genuinely don’t think that’s what many of them want. Or at least, I don’t think they’ve thought it through.

But abusers have patterns and the pattern is “what I say goes or else.” So, I’m not going down the “what I say goes” trail. Not with anyone. But specifically not with people I know hurt me.

So, that’s just the impasse. I can’t and don’t want to be the person they’d be more comfortable with me being. And we’re all miserable as a result.

And fuck it if I’m going to Georgia for Christmas when my other brother couldn’t be bothered to come up to this clusterfuck he instigated.

6 thoughts on “Thank God I’m Home

  1. I love you a ridiculous amount, good lady. And I’m so sorry, and disappointed, and sad, and more than a little angry, that those who should be the most proud of, the most thrilled for and the most loving toward you are … not.

    Am very glad you have a life you’ve worked so hard to achieve and deserve in so many ways, and I’m deeply sorry that people who have decency *somewhere* in their DNA – they have to, they’re part of YOU, an exceptionally decent, kind and loving person – continue choosing the crueler, more difficult route. It’s so much easier, and a damn sight more fun, to hug someone joyfully and hold her/his/their hand and say, “Now, what mischief have you been up to?” and squeak with joy and hug again when s/he/they tell you all the news.

    Glad you and Sir Rufus got to have butt-hugs with your favorite little buddies, at least. As for the “kid” nonsense, I called Harry “son” occasionally, but it was a Jerry Reed-type exclamation or the weird shorthand I use for males, which includes but isn’t limited to “son,” “hoss,” “brother/brotherman,” “bubba,” “Mister Man,” “slick,” etc. Anyone who referred to him as my “child” got my “He’ll be my ‘child’ when I can claim him as a deduction and use my FSA account to pay his vet bills, heffa” lecture. (Not pretty.)

    I hope your upcoming decision brings you peace; you deserve no less. And anyone who objects can answer one question: why are you, our B, obligated to present yourself for their abuse? In fact, here’s an idea: tell them to call me or come by my house and explain; you have my number and address. I’ll video our convo and forward it to you, and send them a copy, too.

    Please forgive the extreme overuse of your bandwidth. It’s better when it’s 260 characters, isn’t it?

    Bearhugs to you, and butt-hugs to that fuzzy guy (and fuzzy gal, if she’ll accept them).


  2. P.S. because I haven’t already written enough:

    Wait. It’s *your* fault your parents prefer not to have alcohol in their home, not only because they choose not to drink but because they also don’t want the awful guilt, terrible grief and potential legal liability of one or more of the dumbasses getting knee-walking drunk under their roof, squealing out of their driveway, and maiming or killing themselves and/or someone else?

    The unmitigated GALL of y’all. How dare you inconvenience them?!

    I hope you informed them that if they’re so horribly deprived by going without alcohol for … what, two hours?, they can get up and go for a postprandial walk to “burn off some of this great food!” and toss a few back behind the garage like every other American with CofC or other teetotalers in the family has since 1620. Jeez. At least that way your parents still have plausible deniability when these twits kill/maim somebody.

    Glad you got up there and back home safely. Hope you have a lovely week and get som extra rest to recover from your long hours on the road. Sending additional bearhugs because you deserve them. All of ‘em. 🤗🥰❤️😊

  3. If I’m understanding correctly, I think what happened is that my parents told everyone they didn’t need to bring anything and my cousin who is married into the family took that to mean that she should bring a nice bottle of wine and her husband, who has been in our family his whole life, let her go out and buy the wine without telling her the deal.

    Then when she was embarrassed to discover that her gift was unwelcome, and pissed at him for not telling her, he decided this was somehow my fault and not his. And then she and I were both pissed at him trying to make it like I was being unreasonable and how could he know and blah blah blah.

    But also, yes, if drinking is so important, take your cup out to the car when you’re “looking for the kids” or “forgot your jacket” or whatever and drink all you want out there.

  4. Ach, ugh, yikes, argh. (noises I made reading this). The gap between the person you are now, and the person your family thinks you are, (or wants you to be) can be so painful. I wish I had some sort of advice that would allow you to make this all magically better but no such thing. You’re definitely not alone in those feelings, though.

  5. Not showing up for these things is the best idea. The second best idea is showing up briefly, even if that involves staying in a motel or B&B at some distance away; in fact, the distance gives you a perfect excuse to leave whenever you like (“oh, sorry, I have a long drive and need to leave now”). I mean, the abusers in your family are gonna abuse, because that’s what they do. But you don’t have to be present for that. And the rest of them–you do realize they’re just jealous, right? You have this great life, with a job you love, wildly creative and successful avocations, and friends. Plus a dog and cat. And they are so jealous of all that that they about can’t stand it. So they have to make lots of noise about how sad it is that you don’t have children, because that’s a lot easier than admitting that they didn’t have the guts or the talent to do the things you’re doing.

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