Fighting with My Family

I can’t think of anything to write. I mean, I could write about the small feud I’m having with my parents – but I feel like that might make it worse. I’d rather just ignore it. Of course, you can’t ignore a fight. Tension is always present. Yes, yes, I hear you. Your silence is loud. You can pretend you don’t care. You can go about your day, seem normal and unphased, but inside, you’re always dealing with it.

I also can’t ignore it because I’m a writer. And even though I tell myself that I will not touch this, that I will probably make it worse, I realize, as I sit here, finally typing, the words flowing out like blood, that the longer I try not to write about it, the longer I won’t write anything. I’m also telling myself that this is why my duty. This is why people read.

I hate vague. I hate when someone says they’re having a hard time, or it was a bad week, then glides over it. Wait, I think. Go back. Tell me about the bad day. Give me the details. That’s why I’m here. To forget my life, my troubles, and lose myself in yours.

I have an old coworker who used to have a newsletter. I don’t know if she still does because I unsubscribed years ago. Because she never said anything. For a few brief weeks, she almost did. She hinted at some pain --about maybe regretting her move to London, her career choice. I don’t know because she never fully disclosed anything. She danced around it for weeks, until it went from semi-personal to inane, surface-level stuff. I gave her months to come around, but she never did. She never opened the door again. So, I unsubscribed.

I do, however, still follow her on Instagram. That’s how I know she recently had a baby. Yet when she posts pictures of the baby, she always puts an emoji over the baby’s face. I can’t stand this. Why? What’s the point? You’re not Paris Hilton. Then again, even Paris Hilton shows her baby’s face. What I mean is: You either share your life or you don’t. You either post photos of the baby or you don’t. You either write something true, something real, or don’t write at all.

Of course, I know why some writers don’t. You can’t write about life without writing about people (yourself included) and most people, even if they say they don’t mind, hate being written about. That’s the price you pay for the status of writer. Other people have commutes, bosses, coworkers. We have guilt, shame and pissed off relatives.

A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

That’s the thing about being a writer. You’re always changing, evolving, working through something. The thing about parents is they aren’t ever going to change. One must accept this truth. They’re not the parents you want. You’re not the child they want. You learn to live with one another. Yet every nine months or so, I forget this and the same fight occurs. Different circumstances, same issue.

This time, it was festering since Labor Day weekend. That was the tipping point. I spoke about it a few weeks ago. How my parents asked us to come a week early so we could spend time with my sister on her rare visit home. Sounds like a simple request. But as usual, it was us moving our schedule around to align with everyone else’s.

Five days we pulled the girls out of daycare. Jay trying to work from a Queen bed next to screaming kids. Let’s just say, the eight days was not great for my marriage or my mental health. So we come home from the beach and Jay and I are exhausted but at least, I notice, we’re back on the same side. We both agree. My parents asked too much of us. They got their family trip, my mom got her Christmas card picture; we almost got a divorce.

But we swallow it. Try to move on. Jay goes on his business trip. My mom has me and the girls over for dinner. I get a babysitter the next night. Four days later, she calls me twice and I finally call her back, well aware I’m not in the best mood.

I’m tired, unemployed and sometimes just miserable. I don’t want to talk. I especially don’t want to go to this charity event she’s emailed and most definitely calling me about. I tell her that’s the last thing I want to do. I tell her I wish that instead of filling her days with charities and canasta and pickle ball, she’d help me with the kids more. The words are coming out and I feel them. They’re heavy and loaded but also feel good to let go of.

She’s caught off guard. She doesn’t understand. She disagrees. She thinks I’m seeing things wrong. I have lost perspective. Either way, the conversation is being had. I am saying the things I need to get off my chest. She takes it surprisingly well, I think, after she hangs up.

Five hours later a text arrives.