My holiday is slowly drawing to a close, and already this year feels infinitely different than the last. Shar and I spent part of New Year’s Day walking on Jericho Beach – when we weren’t overdosing on Madonna concerts, Buffy episodes and random zips through Sex and the City, that is (Side note: poor Brian!) Anyway, at one point I turned to her and said, “Is it just me, or does this year feel radically different?”
“How so?” she asked.
I thought for a moment. “I don’t know, really. All I know is I woke this morning and felt as though this giant weight had lifted off me. For the first time in a long time I feel like everything is going to be okay.”
And maybe reconnecting with family and remembering where I came from has a little bit to do with that.
Family has been a confounding subject to me for I don’t know how long. I’ve been infinitely fascinated with family dynamics for the past year or so, often grilling people so much about what makes their kin tick that I’m sure some of them thought I was preparing to do some hardcore stalking. But the truth of the matter is, I’ve always had a volatile family life… which likely isn’t that much different from anyone else’s, really. But doesn’t always seem like you’re the only one when you’re in the middle of family struggles?
At any rate, my family and I have fought so ferociously and harbored grudges for so long that we’ve gone years without speaking to one another. I once made the comment that my family’s blood is made of invisible ink. There are certainly moments where that’s been justified and not, but ultimately I think there had to be a point where the decision was made to choose something other than rage or pain – at least, on my part. Dragging around that much internal guck was becoming too much of a drag.
So over the holidays I traveled to Kelowna for the first time since I was 12 years-old to see my father, whom I hadn’t seen since I was 17 and hadn’t spoken to since I was 20. He picked me up at the airport in Vancouver and we drove home together, taking time out to chat and reacquaint one another with what it’s like to be in each other’s lives before I was foisted upon his new wife and kids. I suppose if I hadn’t have spent the last 11 months talking with him over e-mail and on the phone it might’ve felt weird, but we took those months to talk through and work through some of the issues that plagued us over the years.
And then I saw (some of) and spoke with (the one’s who weren’t in person) my extended family – my uncle, who I probably hadn’t seen since I was a teenager; my aunt, with whom I’ve always had a kinship; my cousin, who was probably one of my most favorite family members when I was growing up, even though he insisted on playing the Shadow Game to a degree that made me want to clobber him when we were kids. It was fascinating to hear them, to see them, and to see slivers of myself in them in ways I didn’t expect.
But I think the most fascinating thing for me was reconnecting with the woman who was my stepmother, Leslie. Leslie came into my life when I was pre-teen and married my father a while later, but from the moment she and I met, we had a connection – one that neither of us could explain, and still can’t, and now we just don’t even try. Even though my father and I had our falling out, Leslie hunted me down after the two of them divorced and we continued our relationship, albeit intermittently. I was wrapped up in my own drama when I was in Toronto, moving to San Francisco, eventually jumping to Los Angeles… and to an extent, I think I wasn’t really ready for a relationship with her.
I think a good chunk of that was directly related to my own issues with my birth mother. I think in a way I felt as though having a relationship with Leslie was disrespectful to my birth mother – not because she’d ever said anything to make me feel that way, but because I really questioned why someone who didn’t give birth to me would want to have that kind of relationship with me. Meanwhile, me and the woman who did give birth to me couldn’t seem to talk to one another without hurting each other’s feelings, ushering in long bouts of silence and wall-building.
But when I saw Leslie for the first time in nearly 16 years, it was like a missing piece of me had been found. I’d envisioned our reunion as being teary and emotional, but it wasn’t – it was just calm. It was as though we hadn’t been apart all those years. It was comfortable and… right. We’d gone back to her place and dropped off my stuff, then went grocery shopping for dinner, ate, and curled up on the couch together to watch a movie. And maybe to some it seems strange that a 32 year-old woman would lay on a couch with her head resting on her Spiritual Mom’s shoulder as if she were 10 again, but it wasn’t to me or to her. It was just… good. So very good.
Days later she took me shopping for a belated Christmas gift.
“You know I don’t like buying frivolous things,” she said to me as we drove, “So I’m going to take you shopping for new bras and underwear.”
I had to laugh. “Well, you didn’t get to get me my training bra, so I guess now’s the time.”
She nodded as she parked the car and walked me into one of those bra stores where it feels like they should have a door charge just to browse. She introduced me to her favorite sales girl and announced, “This is my daughter.”
When I was in the fitting room trying on a bra that cost more than my iPod, she said to me, “Is that alright? That I call you my daughter? I feel strange calling you anything else.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s fine by me. It sounds right.”
“Good.” She grabbed my bra strap and tinkered with it a little, announcing, “There. That’s better. Now you have more support, don’t you think?”
Yes. Yes I do.
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