Is it just me or do other people wonder if their family
likes them? After a holiday spent with
my family of origin, I always seem to ask myself that question. I have come to accept that they love me in
their decidedly dysfunctional fashion, but do they like me?
Steve and I arrived at my sister’s house in Berkeley just
after 1 in the afternoon yesterday on Thanksgiving. We were welcomed warmly by my sister and my
nieces. The house, a lovely 1930s
bungalow, upgraded just enough to make it gorgeous and comfortable, was full of
light and warmth and autumnal beauty.
Mums lined the mirrored coffee table in short, glass vases; small fairy
lights graced displays of decorative pumpkins and gourds. Brown, burnt orange, gold and white blended
with the bright sunshine streaming through the large front window, reflected
off the light wood floors, and glimmered against the backdrop of mirrors and
gilt trim to encase the rooms in elegant comfort. Soft jazz played in the background and there
was laughter coming from the kitchen.
Holidays at my sister’s home are always beautiful and fun, but for me
there is also always an undercurrent of worry present.
How do you measure if someone likes you? My therapist tells me to notice how curious
they are about you. Do they listen when
you speak? Do they ask questions about
you or your life, your job? Based on
those criteria, I would have to say that perhaps my family of origin, including
both my parents, my siblings, and their children, only like me a little. My father and stepmother were not at the
holiday meal, having chosen to live in Italy most of the year. In fact, I had not heard from my father for
two weeks, despite having responded to his email about the death of Leonard
Cohen (which was actually a copy of an email he had sent my sister) with news
of a recent physical illness I had suffered brought on by the stress of the election
results and also mentioning this blog, which he has not yet visited. So, that’s my dad. Not very interested in me at all.
What about my mother?
She sat enthroned at the end of the sofa in the living room for a good
deal of the afternoon. I sat next to her
for a while, petting her dog, Katie Casty.
For a time I had my mother’s approval because Katie loves me. My mother’s deaf ear was towards me, however,
and she could not hear what I was saying most of the time. And for some reason, the photo prints of
myself that I had brought her seemed to agitate her more than please her. “Where is this? What is that?
Is that the water? No, then what
is it?” she kept saying, pointing to a snap shot of me sitting on the pier in
Bandon, Oregon. She did not comment on
whether the pictures were pretty or not, and I am not sure she could see me
well enough to judge, because she was obsessed with the backgrounds, “That’s
the Golden Gate. And that’s Marin,
right? Here? That’s Marin?” The pictures were set down. I chalked her confusion up to her worsening
dementia. I sat and petted the dog while my mother watched the young people. One of my nieces came up and perched on the
arm of the sofa and leaned in to talk to her Nana and the pleasure on my mother’s
face made me jealous. I have never
received that kind of attention from my mother.
But I have also never fawned over her with so much affection. Later, I started telling my niece a story
about when I was 13 and stuck in the car with her mother, my sister, and my
sister’s new boyfriend as we drove around Idaho and Washington. I was describing how awful it was to see them
all lovey-dovey and kissing when my mother hissed, “Stop talking like
that! That is disgusting!” The look on her face showed the disgust she
was feeling as she looked at me. “It isn’t
disgusting,” I countered, still speaking lightly. “It’s funny.
I was 13…” She glared at me, “It
is disgusting and I don’t want to hear it!”
I shrugged and walked away. I
have finally learned not to engage with my mother at family functions. I don’t know what she actually heard me
saying. Her hearing is bad and her
dementia worsening, but I know that at that moment she did not like me one iota
and I have no idea why and it cut straight through my breastbone to see her
looking at me like that. A few minutes
later, my niece hugged me from behind in the kitchen and whispered, “I love
you, Auntie Erica.” My mother did not
even look at me again the entire 4-5 hours we were together. She was very busy laughing and chatting with
my nieces and my sister and my brother-in-law, and even the family friend. She sat and enjoyed the show while they all
sang and danced to “Hamilton” tunes. I
took that opportunity to slip out front to be with Steve as he smoked a
cigarette and talked to my sons and nephew.
My son Andrew’s dog, Ares, was in the car and my nephew’s dog, Roxie,
was in his car, and we let both dogs out to play and sniff. At one point, Katie Casty snuck away from my
mom to join the real dogs, but she was swept back inside quickly.
Ares (left) and Katie Casty |
Roxie |
What about everyone else?
My brother asked to say goodbye to me when he and my sister and mom were
Facetiming with him, although we had not yet said hello. My brother-in-law listened to me for a few
minutes when the room was discussing Trump.
I learned things about my sister and her daughters’ lives that I had not
known about. They shared of themselves on
a surface level to me with affection.
But, thinking of what my therapist said, I realized that none of them
asked a single question of me and when I tried to share of myself with them, I
was usually interrupted and talked over or simply ignored. This is not entirely because they don’t like
me, I know. It was a busy house full of
noisy people. But I felt unseen much of
the time.
This has been a year of re-evaluating the relationships
in my life, trying to surround myself with people who value me and appreciate
me, or at least accept me in all my glorious craziness, so dissecting how my
family treats me falls into place in my thoughts. Does my family like me? My children like me. That is of utmost importance to me. I think at least one of my nieces likes me. The other likes me in a more distant “crazy
Aunt Erica” way. My nephew? I’m not sure.
My brother no longer even knows me, so I can’t say he likes me. He likes his memories of me. My brother-in-law likes me in a general way,
but he likes almost everyone. I think I irritate
the crap out of my big sister, to be honest.
She tries to like me. And my
parents, well, at 53 I think I am going to have to give up on trying to make
either of them like me. I know my family
loves me. I know they don’t understand
me and I make many of them uncomfortable with my intensity and my honesty and
my darkness. My rejection of material things
and financial success has made me a puzzle, as well. But if my therapist is right, and you can
judge whether a person likes you from their interest level in you and your
life, then I am afraid that, no, my family of origin does not like me much.
14 years ago, riding back to Chico late one evening after
a holiday spent with my family of origin, my son Andrew, then 12, leaned
forward from the backseat and asked, “Mom, why are you so different from
everyone else in your family?” Out of
the mouths of babes…