On Family

I still remember the kitchen island. We used to sit at it and make Coke floats before bed time. Neither of us really liked Rootbeer, but we loved ice cream. So Coke floats it was. It was a welcome bedtime snack as I secretly wasn’t a fan of the pepperoni pizza and 1% milk I had to eat for dinner. You knew I didn’t like pepperoni, but you said it’s what Tom liked — same with the 1%. I assumed my eating this every other Friday night was normal since you were my dad. You said to eat it, so I did. For more Friday nights than I can remember.

The kitchen island was somehow in my view when Tom said, “That jumper makes you look chubby.” I don’t remember if I was in the kitchen, island behind me, or if I was in the dining room, table behind me. But I was there, on Saturday morning before being taken back home to my mom’s house. You were there too. I don’t remember how old I was, but if mom packed a jumper, I couldn’t have been more than seven — I didn’t like dresses, not even jumpers, but she tried until… I guess I could put up too much of a fuss perhaps.

You didn’t say anything to Tom.

I never said anything to mom until I was in my twenties. It wasn’t until then that I began to realize a lot of what happened on those Friday nights were things I should have told her about (to be clear — she isn’t to blame; he put up a good front). It could have been worse, but I spent years assuming if a random adult your dad knows says something mean that it’s okay. As a seven year old I quickly learned my value, particularly in relationship to Tom — your roommate/boyfriend/husband. I didn’t have much value, if any. I didn’t know to articulate it in such a way at the time though, and I thought that’s just the way it was… surely this is what my friends at school experienced.

And thus began my journey of trying to forge a relationship with someone because that’s what you’re supposed to do. He’s the only dad you get so cherish it. I forged and failed and failed and failed. At some point I finally saw through the bull shit — that I won’t rehash here because if the above isn’t enough for you to realize that it didn’t get better with age than nothing can convince you — and I let go. I’ve even forgiven him, for my own sake. I couldn’t hang on to the toxicity anymore.

This is all to say, family is not blood. The notion of blood being thicker than water doesn’t pass life’s test. I recently had carpal tunnel surgery — my fourth orthopedic surgery in the last five (or six?) years — and once again, I see my family, crystal clear. I’m related to some via blood but not others. The active choice to love and care is stronger than a relationship based solely on blood will ever be.

I spent years attempting to force a relationship out of obligation to others. It often felt as if I was an obligation, not anything to be loved or cherished. Once I cut ties with my biological father I learned that I loathed any relationship in which I was simply an obligation. You married so and so. Okay. Let’s exchange gifts… Blah.

I was an obligation to my biological father my entire life until I finally said no. I no longer have the energy to embark in these types of relationships. Not many people understand my desire for a person to just be upfront with me rather than pretending they care because they were raised to do so. Especially if you suck at pretending or just don’t even bother until it’s gift giving season.

Jeff

Mom

Step Dad

RoP crew

MIL

FIL

Those are the people that reached out to me the day of my surgery and made sure to check in on me in some way, shape, or form in the days following. If I look back at my previous surgeries, the list isn’t much different — swap RoP crew for a few names from grad school.

My point is, hold on tight to the people that are there for you in your darker moments. Those are the people that genuinely care. Loving you isn’t an obligation to them. They really truly fucking love you. One of them will help you shave your left underarm. Others will move heaven and Earth to do the most ridiculous things for you, including swapping out a cold brew growler before leaving town. Others will work extra hours since you can’t be at work, send you pictures of cats, and gladly exchange gifs via text about your discovery that Schnucks sells Havarti cheese by the slice. And no one will hold it against you for forgetting to tell them how physical therapy went.

Love is an active choice. It shines brightest when you are at your dimmest. If you can, look up, spot the beacons of light. Hold on to them, cherish them, thank them.