Christmas Guilt and Relief
I sat staring at the trite sentiment on the Christmas card that arrived on the 23rd of December. The gift cards had fallen into my lap, but I'd barely noticed them.
Merry Christmas! Dad, Mom, and [sister]
That was it. It was decided. I was not to be invited for Christmas for the first time in 40 years. Fact was, I wasn't going to kiss their asses and call every week, or ask to be invited. Normal people call others and invite them. They don't have people just up and invite themselves to a function. We weren't invited for Thanksgiving, and now Christmas.
This is what I wanted. After all, I wanted a reason not to go. I didn't want to endure a strained six to eight hours at my abusive parents' house. This was my life, and I had gotten to the point where I could pretty much handle it. I did it in silence and tried to be invisible. It was a survival mechanism, and I pretty much knew how to slip back into that role. I wanted a reason not to have to go over there anymore. I did it for my sister and for my girls.
As a tear slipped down my cheek, I thought of my sister. I hadn't seen her in nearly 6 months. I'm sure my parents said that I didn't want to visit her, didn't love her, didn't want her. I'd tried calling, but my mother always made some excuse why she couldn't talk to me. I wanted her to come over, but there was always the "Cinderella" excuse why she couldn't. I gave up.
My silence cost me. It cost me holidays with her. I didn't kiss my parents' asses by taking them out to dinner, short trips by just to hang out, fawn all over them with attention. I wasn't about to buy into that pathology, but if my brother and sister-in-law wanted to, then all the power to them. They are exactly like my parents.
Yet, this felt like the time I stood up to my parents. Ironically, it was on a Christmas when I came home from college. I accidentally spilled wine on the tablecloth as I was pouring the wine. I asked mom where her paper towels were. She asked why. I told her. She rushed into the dining room, and started swearing at me. I told her it was an accident and to not yell at me.
Slap
She had slapped me in front of my oldest sister and brother-in-law. I staggered backwards and bit my cheek so I wouldn't cry. "Never let her see me cry," I thought. I was 18 years old. An adult. I knew if I called the police no one who witnessed it would stand up for me. My oldest sister was just as afraid of my mother as I was. This time I was angry. I went up into my room and shut the door. I anticipated a fight. I was prepared. I would fight back this time. Fuck them and their money for college tuition. I debated locking the door, but any skeleton key could open it. I struggled not to cry as I traced the hand print across my cheek. My parents called me down for dinner. I said I wasn't hungry. I wasn't going to eat or anything. I was done for the night. My dad tried to talk to me and demanded I come downstairs and eat. He said I was ruining Christmas. I think a slap in the face pretty much ruined mine, but that didn't matter. I was not going to go downstairs. And I didn't.
This situation felt like that. I held steadfast in my decision that I shouldn't be the one to beg to go over and celebrate with them. My children didn't care and thought it would be great to celebrate just the four of us--a new beginning of family tradition.
Wiping away the tear that drifted down my cheek, I took a deep breath and exhaled. I finally felt like I owned my life. I wasn't scared of the ramifications. It didn't matter. They can't hurt me anymore.
Sometimes, some of us have to figuratively kill our parents to be free.
Looks like you took your first step.
I'd say Congratulations, but that won't make it suck less. I hope somehow a way is made for a path to your sister someday. But for now, just take care of yourself.
Your kids have the right attitude.
hugs
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Have a read of this, it might help in some way!
http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory-written-by-christine-miserandino/
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