All the Horrible Girliness

Disposable

It was a long time coming. My heart is broken now, but I wasn't surprised.

See, I have an evil aunt, an evil grandmother, an emotionally-crippled uncle, and an easily-used grandfather. My mother is harmful, too, but only to herself. She's learning the kind of stupid lessons that women should learn in their late teens or early twenties, but she's nearing fifty. Yeah. One of those kareoke bar hoppers.

I forgot to mention: she is a goddamn saint. She forgives at the first kind word. She is a nurse, the kind who helps people die comfortably. You'd think that, after doing that awhile, you'd learn to stop loving every one of them, but my mom is retarded that way. She weeps for each one who passes, takes care of their families, and attends their funerals.

It's the grandfather who is at the cusp of all the problems. He's like my mom. They were always close, and when I was born, he and I were close, too. He gives wholly of himself always. He was a policeman.

My grandmother, aunt, and uncle were always jealous of the relationship my mother and I had with him. We're talking aunt down on her knees under the tree at Christmas, counting gifts to make sure her kids got equal treatment with my mother's kids. We're talking knock-down, drag-out fights every time we all got together.

I used to watch While You Were Sleeping a lot. People wrinkled their noses at me. Samus? Watching a chick flick? Multiple times? But I loved the scenes with the guy's family. They all laughed and commented on the food, and argued pleasantly about actors, and exclaimed at their gifts, and accepted Sandra Bullock right away, sight unseen. They were quirky and silly and tight. Wholly in love with one another.

I thought it was a pipe dream until I met my husband's family. They are just like that. The logic is astounding: Why argue? It's Christmas! Argue another day. Or: It's too hot/cold/late to argue. Or: Don't argue; we have to be careful of Mom's blood pressure. I know arguments happen. I instigated one once, and the family carried on like dogs in water: capable, paddling, wet and heavy and breathing heavily; while I, the professional arguer, swam in tight circles around them, like a speedboat.

The reason is different this year. There is always a reason. My family doesn't do well with no contention. Someone has to be on the outs, so sides can be taken and money taken out of the allotment for people's gifts. My evil aunt has a new husband and a new baby girl, a rented cabin in Estes Park and a strict church schedule. Oh, but I remember:

[1] The affair, during her first marriage, with a man who had an autistic son. The boy really loved french fries. They would put him in the front seat of the car with a side of french fries and fuck in the back seat. Mmmm, french fries.

[2] The hospital, where she ended up for 72 hours after taking some pills in her car. She didn't take quite enough to die. Just enough so she could phone someone in a blurry voice to come get her. She never was very good at following through.

[3] The boyfriend who eventually became her husband. Of course, we all had to keep it from her two sons that they were fucking. That would be unChristianlike.

[4] The dinner out with my mother and two other nurses. The evil aunt worked at the same hospital, doing a desk job that barely required a high school diploma. When guys came over to flirt, she introduced herself as a nurse. In front of actual nurses. Yeah.

[5] The abortions. Her tally, thus far, is Kids: 3. Dead Kids: 4. Had to keep up appearances, you know!

[6] The kid with HIV. The little girl's mother had died of AIDS, and the evil aunt wanted to adopt the baby. See, she always wanted a girl. She's always wanted me, especially after the attention I garnered from her father. I became a disappointment during high school, though, and she scrapped the idea, instead deciding I'd be some kind of nemesis. So anyway, kid ends up with HIV, she decides not to adopt her because of this, then shuts herself in her room and sobs loudly. For days. Sorry for herself, because she couldn't have a baby girl. Not because said baby girl was going to die in a horrible way very young.

[7] The same behavior, to a T, is repeated when a family puppy dies.

[8] When she met my soon-to-be husband, she sat him down and told him I had a "black heart." That he'd find out one day.

[9] Fast forward to a few months ago. Her sixteen-year old son didn't show up at church one night like he was supposed to. She came home, fought with him. He said the word "shit" to her. She slapped him on the face. Twice. He decided to go to his dad's; she disabled his car and took his schoolbooks. She told him he was going to go live with his father forever, but he wasn't allowed to take any of his things and, I quote, "Christmas isn't going to be so nice for you this year." The kid, who faints at the sight of blood, pulls good grades, works a part-time job several days a week, and watches his new little sister whenever it's needed, has now been blown up in the mind of evil aunt, evil grandmother, and weak grandfather as a severe drug addict. My grandmother says, "I know he's into THE HARD STUFF." My grandmother would not know THE HARD STUFF if it bit her on the ass.

In the midst of this mess, my cousin had the police called on him two times. The first time, on the night of the fight. He'd lost his wallet, evil aunt knew this, so she reported him as an unlicensed driver to the cops. Yeah.

Second time, it was evil grandmother who called the cops. He'd come over while his mom was at work to get his clothing, with a friend who they were sure had a warrant out for her arrest. In fact, one of my cousin's friends does have a warrant out for her arrest. She's reported as a runaway because she, at perfectly legal age to do so, has gone to live with her father.

Since this time, months ago, my cousin has made dozens of calls to his mother and stepfather. One he placed while outside their home, looking at their cars in the driveway. The three-year old little girl told him their parents weren't home. He has not heard from them once. He was not invited to Thanksgiving. He was not invited to Christmas.

[10] Lastly, I remember her beating my brother. He was maybe six or seven years old. He didn't want his sandwich. I was feeding evil aunt's son, who was just a baby at the time. My brother could be willful, and picky with his food.

I heard a sound from inside the house, like someone striking the ground with something. Solid slaps, hard, silence otherwise. I got up to see what was going on. Evil aunt had my brother by one arm and was beating him with a wooden spoon. I remember shaking. I went back to my baby cousin.

The wooden spoon broke. She got another one and continued. My brother refused to make a sound. She had been babysitting us.

Later that night, when my mother drove my brother to her sister's house and demanded to know why her son had bruises all up and down his little body, evil aunt explained that he was willful and deserved it, and furthermore, my mother was a horrible parent.

P.S. Her own children were not abused in this fashion. They got "time outs." Because she was a good parent.



So my grandfather told my mom last night that he, evil grandmother, evil aunt, stepuncle and spawn, would be going to the mountains for Christmas. I wonder if he said it out loud, that my mother wasn't invited, or if it was just passive-aggressively implied. I'm assuming the latter.

They're angry at my mother because she keeps in contact with my cousin. The one who's supposedly on THE HARD STUFF. He comes over, watches football. Takes a little gas money. Calls to see how she's doing.

My mother will forgive them. At the first kind word, my mother will come back, begging for love, giving all of herself.

But I have to do something. My mother may be replaceable to her family, but she is not replaceable to me. I believe the cost for breaking her heart this year will be far more expensive than they first considered. They figured they'd teach her a lesson for refusing to support her sister in this silent battle against a sixteen-year old. Then, because history repeats itself, they figured they'd show her a little attention and have her back as if nothing had happened. My mother's spirit looks like a horribly patched-over rag doll, covered in scars from her family's abuse. And that's okay with her.

But I have a new family to take care of. I have a thing inside me with its own heartbeat and absolutely no defense against evil. I have to be that defense. For the good of this baby, I cannot let this continue. My grandfather, who has let me know that this baby growing in me is his greatest hope, prayer and wish, will have to do without, for the atrocities he has committed this Christmas.

May this be the last Christmas that my heart is broken. Next year, God willing, may there be new, unspoiled life in my home to combat the terror that is my horrible extended family. And may my mother spend next Christmas here, with her new grandchild.

In short: Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.

posted by Samus @ 10:40 PM