Nov 2015
I am thankful that I am not miserable, actually quite happy, and that my family is well, and that I am well, and that this break is unlikely to break me.
The last time I remember enjoying a Thanksgiving break so fully is relatively never. There are always terrifyingly large bursts of joy, but never a continuing follow-up. There has just always been something about my family that is overwhelming and, in the end, hurtful.
It seems this year after a long time of deep contemplation, I know. Maybe not all the intricate problems that behold my family, but it seems to be clear to me why I seem to be unable to handle this time of year. And it even seems silly now, looking at it, why I didn't see it before.
My family breeds contempt. Not utter hatred, we spend time together and love one another, but we hold micro-aggressions, we assume things of one another, we bicker and gossip about other family members and nitpick their actions until its hard to not give each person an endless "I love them, but", a fact that I find silly and even a little pathetic.
They spend every year cramming time together, acting like this big, fun, hysterical family when every five seconds someone turns their back they are turning on each other. I hate it. I hated it even before I realized it. Every year left me exhausted and frustrated and at some point in tears. I've never been exactly a follower in my family, and I was always torn between being like them and having as little as possible in common with their actions. And I can't put all blame on their shoulders, I was sheep when it came to them. I let myself be angry and hateful and spiteful because of stupid things each person had done.
Yes, my grandma gets jealous and out there. Yes, my dad is extremely homophobic and close-minded. Yes, many of the older family members are bitter about each other. And ******* yes is the majority of my family at least a little bit racist.
But you know what? Stupid opinions are not the problem, and they shouldn't be. Its the way we act towards one another. And yes my family literally acts like the characters from Mean Girls, but its the big picture things that are the problem.
I think my Grandma knows she's a little crazy, but I doubt she gives a **** anymore and still loves people just as deeply. And my dad is determined in his ways, but if he persisted to love a mentally ill daughter even when he didn't believe in it, I'm sure he'd get his **** together if my brother or I were gay as well. He doesn't understand, and he won't try, but love is still something that matters. And hell yes my family is racist, but they're more ignorantly and blindly racist than intently. They'd likely never say the things they say to someone they say these things about. Guess its a "I'm a privileged white person but I'm not mean" type thing. Though what they say is ******, I can't fault them for never attacking or hurting or working against these people either.
There are some I can't forgive, like those who don't even bother to try, but its not worth my happiness to suffer through their high school agendas.
So you guys can go gossip about Grandma being crazy. I'm going to write songs with her and talk about books. Complain about my Aunt being all messy after her divorce, I'm going to talk to her about our futures. Make fun of my cousins husband who is a little weird but he at least makes so very happy. I'm going to send her letters and learn more about the woman I lost touch with ten years ago.
They're probably yelling at football and being their difficult yet beautiful selves, but its enough for today, to spend most of the day with them and tonight for myself. Its all right to be the weird one. I kind of even want to be the weird one. I hope they question all day why I go on adventures and do crazy things and write novels and make art. Maybe I won't be as close to them anymore, maybe i won't understand their gripes and frustrations, but maybe at least this way they'll know me better when I'm crazy than the quiet girl who got frustrated with them but felt silent in the corner.
The last time I remember enjoying a Thanksgiving break so fully is relatively never. There are always terrifyingly large bursts of joy, but never a continuing follow-up. There has just always been something about my family that is overwhelming and, in the end, hurtful.
It seems this year after a long time of deep contemplation, I know. Maybe not all the intricate problems that behold my family, but it seems to be clear to me why I seem to be unable to handle this time of year. And it even seems silly now, looking at it, why I didn't see it before.
My family breeds contempt. Not utter hatred, we spend time together and love one another, but we hold micro-aggressions, we assume things of one another, we bicker and gossip about other family members and nitpick their actions until its hard to not give each person an endless "I love them, but", a fact that I find silly and even a little pathetic.
They spend every year cramming time together, acting like this big, fun, hysterical family when every five seconds someone turns their back they are turning on each other. I hate it. I hated it even before I realized it. Every year left me exhausted and frustrated and at some point in tears. I've never been exactly a follower in my family, and I was always torn between being like them and having as little as possible in common with their actions. And I can't put all blame on their shoulders, I was sheep when it came to them. I let myself be angry and hateful and spiteful because of stupid things each person had done.
Yes, my grandma gets jealous and out there. Yes, my dad is extremely homophobic and close-minded. Yes, many of the older family members are bitter about each other. And ******* yes is the majority of my family at least a little bit racist.
But you know what? Stupid opinions are not the problem, and they shouldn't be. Its the way we act towards one another. And yes my family literally acts like the characters from Mean Girls, but its the big picture things that are the problem.
I think my Grandma knows she's a little crazy, but I doubt she gives a **** anymore and still loves people just as deeply. And my dad is determined in his ways, but if he persisted to love a mentally ill daughter even when he didn't believe in it, I'm sure he'd get his **** together if my brother or I were gay as well. He doesn't understand, and he won't try, but love is still something that matters. And hell yes my family is racist, but they're more ignorantly and blindly racist than intently. They'd likely never say the things they say to someone they say these things about. Guess its a "I'm a privileged white person but I'm not mean" type thing. Though what they say is ******, I can't fault them for never attacking or hurting or working against these people either.
There are some I can't forgive, like those who don't even bother to try, but its not worth my happiness to suffer through their high school agendas.
So you guys can go gossip about Grandma being crazy. I'm going to write songs with her and talk about books. Complain about my Aunt being all messy after her divorce, I'm going to talk to her about our futures. Make fun of my cousins husband who is a little weird but he at least makes so very happy. I'm going to send her letters and learn more about the woman I lost touch with ten years ago.
They're probably yelling at football and being their difficult yet beautiful selves, but its enough for today, to spend most of the day with them and tonight for myself. Its all right to be the weird one. I kind of even want to be the weird one. I hope they question all day why I go on adventures and do crazy things and write novels and make art. Maybe I won't be as close to them anymore, maybe i won't understand their gripes and frustrations, but maybe at least this way they'll know me better when I'm crazy than the quiet girl who got frustrated with them but felt silent in the corner.
