Do You Like Me? - A Post-Thanksgiving Question

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

After dinner, I sat on the opposite end of the sofa from my mom most of the evening, getting up and dancing for a few minutes, after which she spoke to me briefly to say I danced well.  When she got up to leave half an hour later, she didn’t look my way.  She hugged everyone goodbye, except Steve and me, and left without seeming to notice that I was standing there, waiting for my hug. I didn’t force the issue.  Again, I don’t know if she was simply tired and senile, or still disgusted with me, but I certainly did not feel liked.  Poor Steve, he was treated as if he was an extension of me and unfairly ignored, too.

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…