Before his plane would land, a twist of fate resulted in his first brush with evil – and my re-entry into a world I'd managed to escape – although not unscathed. My son was heading way too close to my "home".
Twist and climb and draw the blinds – but you cannot out-fox your past.
This year – one that saw me hit rock bottom with maternal worry, also found me on top of the world – Kilimanjaro – brushing away fears, and untimely tears for a man who'd lost his beautiful life two days before I'd set out for Tanzania.
Losing the most positively influential person in my child's life, sucked the life out of me. And now, that child – whom I'd raised strategically out of harm's way – was surrounded by my past. He'd be playing hockey, a one-beer joy ride from my ol' stompin' ground, and my family.
The control freak had to let go of the wheel.
This would be a year of forgiveness through clenched teeth, now that my only child was geographically closer to my mother. This Google map hiccup – while great for my son's hockey – exposed me once again to the disrespect and negativity bestowed upon me by my family – in particular, my only sibling – a brother who has belittled me for as long as I can remember.
And so it began. Like a dull can opener slowly shredding through tough skin, I stuck little pieces of toilet paper on a fresh wounds. Until yesterday.
Yesterday, I overheard a telephone conversation between my child and his Uncle – my brother. I didn't need ears to understand what was being said. I've heard it all before. Poisonous arrows slung from a very dark, unhappy place where my brother has been hiding his entire life – stepping out of his moldy, money-obsessed closet, long enough to knock me me down. His aim was true – straight through my child – toward me.
The lack of respect and hatred were a familiar tune. Never mind that against all odds, I've raised a happy, confident, kind human being. My unplanned parenting style was to take everything I'd learned from my own childhood, and do the complete opposite. It was lonely at times, but it worked.
Yesterday, I had to sit my son down and explain to my son why we have lived our lives separately from my family. Why I had placed a protective bubble around him. Why our lives had real Christmas trees. Breakfast. Respect. Hugs. Security. Adventures we couldn't afford. Freakishly early bedtimes. Conversations. Rules, boundaries, discipline, love, and laughter. Giving, without expecting something in return. Fights and forgiveness. And no need for closed doors.
Describing my childhood to my son was painful, and although I hate the word: cathartic. It made me realize how much it must piss off my family that the shining star – the only grandchild – sprang from the loins of an asshole like me. The crazy sister. The financial disaster. The wild child. The dropout. The fuck up.
Imagine that.
On a recent trip home to see my mother – who'd been facing blood pressure spikes of 228 – she pulled out her jewelry box and proceeded to walk me through the history of our family jewels.
"I just need you to know where things come from, in case I conk," My mother explained.
Grandma Schultz's wedding diamond resurfaced – lodged in a shockingly modern setting – something I wouldn't wear even if my hands were graceful and manicured, instead of ravaged by stress. Earrings. Watches. Aunt Pearl's gold link bracelet, purported to be "worth something".
"Thank you." I said, with a sick feeling, suddenly realizing my mother doesn't even know who I am, and I really didn't want her to die. "But these things don't belong to me."
I don't belong to them, I thought.
"Oh well." She said, closing the wooden box. "You'd probably pawn everything anyway."
And there it was.
The elephant in the room winked at me – a reminder that I already had enough family heirlooms, thank you – like the feeling of worthlessness somebody left me in their will. Besides, I knew my mother's house and all of her earthly possessions would be reduced to column in a bank statement before I even knew she was gone.
Like the time I found out about my mom's first heart attack on Facebook, from my cousin Janis.
With familial lines of communication shaky at best – this past June 1, my brother told me I "wasn't worth a long distance call". Not exactly a Hallmark happy birthday moment.
He also keeps my grandmother's sterling silver flatware hidden away in its original box. I have nothing of hers, well, except for her ass and her barbed-wire sense of humour. Fully aware of my commitment to flying solo, my brother has repeatedly promised to give me her silver as a wedding gift.
He hates me that much.
But, my mismatched assortment of forks and knives work just fine, and yesterday it dawned on me why it is said that, 'you can't go home again'. Maybe it's because you've never really loved yourself enough to leave.
Today, though, there's a refreshing snap of change in the air. My beautiful boy is around for few more weeks before heading back to Ontario. He likes it there, but says "this" is home.
This. This love. Whatever this is that I have built for us. This is my home too. I take it with me wherever I go. Hopefully he will too.
Today, I'm going to buy some clear nail polish and put a layer between myself and whatever's been eating away at me this past year.
A nice, shiny coat of "Let it go."
