Letting Go

"I haven't posted anything in two months."

"I know."

I write, and then I delete it, and then I start over and then I end up crying and falling asleep. I'd like to post more, I would, but I really hate crying, and writing anything worthwhile, usually results in tears and me making really terrible faces.

"I'm not ready to not be part of my family yet, and I can't do that to them."

"But that's what art is."

"You don't understand, I can't stand my family, but they're not bad people and there are things that all of them don't know and I don't want to say anything yet."

Sam is an only child, but has a lot of cousins on both sides of his family. I am the youngest of five and have two cousins on each side, I don't really know any of them. But as my siblings have all spawned the feelings at family gatherings have certainly shifted. It's more hectic, but generally we, the adults are better behaved than we were a few years ago. Perhaps though this is just a phase my family is going through. 

But they really don't like me writing about them. That's really hard for me. Because it's my nature to share, and overshare. Last Christmas things got crazy and my sister *August requested that I change her name. I get that, I do, and she and I didn't talk for a few months after that, but part of me really wants to not care. That part of me wants to say, "if you really loved me, you'd recognize that this is something I have to do" - and eventually I will, but I haven't yet. 

I went to New York this week and when I got back I noticed that my dad had made some changes to the computer (he's anti-wifi, long story) and I went downstairs to get him. 

"You changed the password? I can't update anything. I'm so pissed."

"That's it! I don't have to help you. Not if you're going to use that kind of language."

Pissed. That was the word that he was upset over, this, the man who routinely went on angry tirades while I was growing up. The man who used many a name, including a variety of fun four letter words in my direction growing up. 

 I pulled him back and he told me to not use that kind of language, again, and I told him to come back upstairs.

"I didn't hear you say 'Please.'"

"Please."

He put in the password and then told me the password.

"I didn't do anything bad to you."

"What?"

"When you were growing up. You act like I did all these things to you."

"What are you going on about, you did do lots of awful things to all of us."

"I don't remember them."

"You called me a 'fucking ungrateful twit' when I was sixteen because I had forgotten where the remote was."

"I don't remember that."

"You threw a tea set at me because I forgot to put it away and it broke as it his the wall behind me. I was five."

"I guess I've blocked all that out, I try to remember the good things."

"I do, too. It's just hard sometimes. And you're not like that now."

"I hope you've written this down."

"Not all of it. And I haven't published it because you're not the asshole you were then. I haven't wanted to hurt anyone."

"You need to write it all down."

And I will, but I'll include the good parts, too. Those existed, but it's hard growing up and going to the park and having a great time and not knowing what will set anyone off. Or going to the zoo, or bowling or piano lessons. There were so many rules, some I didn't even know about until I had broken them.

"You should probably be in therapy."

"I was for years, and things are a lot better when I'm not around you and mom."

"Maybe you should go back."

He's probably right, but more than anything I feel like I don't have to hold on to things anymore. Part of that is really scary, but everything feels so much better when it's shared.