One of the reasons that I distance myself from #relatives is parental role modeling. Yeah, it's not fair to blame the parents for all your mental hassles, but in this case, the shoe fits. History tends to repeat itself, and so do #families. Take my father, for instance. He had a dicey background--he was an only
child (never a good start) whose mother died of cancer when he was about 21. Mostly his father was the pivotal factor in his life, and from what I remember (I was only 7 when my grandfather died)
and what my mother described, my grandfather was a dictator of sorts. Kind of like a member of the gestapo without the Nazi influence. He washed windows for a living and had a #dog named Sportie, so he won points that way. But I remember he was pretty strict. I practically fell asleep at a seder, but he still continued the pre-dinner readings. All in Hebrew I guess. Probably an orthodox Jew and a smart one at that although he committed the ultimate sin (according to my father) by remarrying quickly after his wife died from ovarian cancer.
The point is #Mom steered clear of him as much as possible. Other than my paternal grandparents, my father's side of the family was limited to my Uncle Mike. He was a doctor of questionable abilities (my father had a love-hate relationship with him), a bachelor unused to children, and again someone my mother disliked, primarily because he at one time wanted to live with his nephew (my dad) and his new wife. The rest of my father's family was an uncle who committed suicide and several cousins whom I never met but were completely ignored by my father. Once when I was fishing for info about the genesis of my depression, I heard about a bunch of wacko relatives on my father's side, but I guess the genetic link has to be somewhere.
Distancing also occurred with my mother's family. At various times she was at war with all her siblings. The youngest in a family of five children, my mother was school smart, ambitious, and extremely docile. When she couldn't get the money for college her brother promised her, she collapsed in a dead heap and revised her career goals. She took on a series of thankless jobs in the medical and business fields but concentrated mainly on marrying well. I've got to admit this was Depression times, jobs were scarce, and money even scarcer, so marriage provided a commonsense option. So Mom probably did what any reasonable female would do: move up the social ladder.
#Marriage to a #dentist or doctor was considered prestigious in those years, but my #mother quickly learned she would pay a high price for this decision. Her limited interaction with her siblings (with my father's endorsement) primed me to do the same. I used to joke that I wouldn't recognize my mother's brother if he bumped into me on the street since we had never been formally introduced. True. My other uncle--the #doctor with the weird medical practice--always struck me as a repressed sexual pervert. He'd come over for dinner once in a while, bring some cheap inappropriate gift, and try to make polite conversation. I don't know what my parents might have told him about me, but I felt that whatever it was, it had created the "Hairy Eyeball Effect," which is to say he didn't just chat with me; he analyzed me. He also, I'm told, packed a pistol and wasn't shy about using it since he had experienced break-ins where he practiced--criminals stealing narcotics and other opiates.
Some days I couldn't decide which relative was more deserving of disfavor so I solved that problem by observing my parents' behaviors. If one relative was on the "A" list that month, I knew I could safely talk about him or her without parental repercussions. Not on the "A" list? I sealed my lips and pretended he didn't exist.
I did like my Aunt Evelyn, even though she had an on-again-off-again relationship with my mother. At least she had a sense of humor and didn't criticize me. She was always busy smoking, playing cards, and indulging her grandchildren. That looked good to me since everyone at my house took a stoic approach to life. Her children--my first cousins-- were a breath of fresh air, despite the fact I saw them only occasionally. Aunt Ev's daughter remarried after a painful divorce, and her son was a sorta private investigator. Tall, dark, and handsome described him to a T. He was drop-dead gorgeous, so handsome and charming that women fell in love with him at first sight, even celebrities whose names he was not afraid to drop. He never paid much attention to me--in hindsight I think he was too much in love with himself to be bothered.
The cold shoulder pretty much described how I experienced most of my #relatives, but a few years ago I decided to mend fences and get in touch with a few of them. One cousin whom I only knew by name even though we lived in the same town called to give his condolences on my mom's death. He was an ER doctor in Chicago, so I guess he gravitated to it (it being the death thing). He was great on the phone but I never heard from him again. Connecting with relatives from the past was no easy task, but I figured it was worth it. Not only would it annoy my sister (always a plus!) but it might help erase some of those shadowy memories that popped up whenever I craved the closeness and intimacy of another person with a somewhat shared history.
Anyway this turned out to be a #BigMistake! Remember the first-cousin divorcee? Well, she married a butcher, ushered two more children into the world, then divorced her second husband because he went to jail for something everyone in the family hushed up. But I think it had to do with money. Later on, my cousin (who we'll call Barbie) told me she really divorced him because he was not a "nice person." I inferred that by this, she was explaining that it wasn't the crime thing that offended her; it was the "not nice" thing. That was one clue to her character that I missed entirely.
In fact I was so clueless about her that I missed another red flag. Right after my #mother died, I had invited myself to a family reunion in Florida. I happened to have a picture with me of mom taken not long before she died of dementia. So I whisked out the picture and presented it to Barbie, at which point she glanced at it for a nanosecond and thrust it back into my hands. "Ew, I don't want to see her looking like that," she said. Granted Mom was 90 years old and had a childish demeanor. Still, my mother looked presentable, so I didn't expect that kind of harsh reaction. I felt rejected by proxy, and I felt my mother turn over in her grave and say, "Told you!"
This set the tone for our relationship---no talking about #oldage, #illness, or #death. Of course I am stubborn to a fault so I decided to visit Florida and Barb again and combine it with a visit to friends in South Carolina. Barb was negative on my driving her car, so she did the the martyr and put on all the mileage herself. Meanwhile I sat in the car and counted stripped tire rims on Rt. 95.
Savannah was our first agreed-on destination, and it was fine, even if I did have to talk my cousin into a guided tour. But Barb did not want to continue onto Myrtle Beach despite our previous agreement. And when I cajoled her into driving there, she morphed into a bitch. Nothing was good. Not the food, not the sights, and not the treatment she received from my friends, her hosts. We were supposed to spend two days there before returning to Florida, but Barb made the unilateral decision to leave immediately. I cried, told her she was ruining my vacation, but it didn't do any good. Barb wasn't budging. Silence became our third passenger on the return trip. Barb didn't care about the rain or traffic or the fact I was disappointed in her; all she knew was that she wanted her way. Our relationship ended the moment she dropped me off at the airport. She jumped to Number One on my list of relatives I have come to hate.
You've got them too, I suspect. Write me and tell me who and why. I'd love to hear and so would other blog readers.
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