For the first time in my life, I am not spending the holiday with my family. Yesterday my Aunt called to try and "change my mind", as she put it. "Forty-five minutes of secondhand insults, gaslighting and triangulation" is how I would have put it. Calling someone names to get them to do something isn't a successful strategy, whatever the situation. Unfortunately, the Gang of Four have yet to grasp this, and I hold out no hope that they ever will.
Among other things, my Aunt called me a bully. She has full knowledge of the experiences I've had, and being a retired teacher she must have seen a fair amount of bullying herself, so for her to call me this would have been unthinkable, until it happened. She knew that it would horrify me and hurt me deeply. However, it was a tactic I have long been familiar with, and only lately learned to ignore. This is how the Gang of Four operate: they wear you down with insults and guilt trips until you can take no more, and you give into them just to make them stop. However, since this tactic stopped working for them in September, they've grown frustrated. My Aunt wasted no time in telling me that my Mother has stopped sleeping and that her blood pressure is through the roof. "She's hurting a lot, you know."
Two years of antidepressants and medication to battle the side effects, a solid year of therapy and a few suicidal trips to A&E don't mean anything to the Four.
Gratitude came up a lot in the conversation. That old chestnut of my being so ungrateful for all the food and clothing and shoes and instruments and tuition and so on ad nauseam. It doesn't matter how I really feel, of course. I could record an album and dedicate it to my Mother, and I'd still not be thankful enough for everything she's ever done for me. What they want from me is, by design, unattainable.
There's only one thing for which I'm not grateful, and it's the only thing about which the Four are in denial. None of it was ever physical, you see, so in their minds it never happened.
My Aunt asked my Grandmother if she wanted to speak to me. "No," came the haughty reply. Why, I'd just love to spend Christmas with people that aren't talking to me. Let me go buy my train ticket.
I gave up trying to make myself heard. "Okay," I replied to everything she said. "Okay."
"We love you very much, but we don't love your behaviour."
"Okay."
"We don't know who you are anymore."
"Okay."
"You should apologise to your mother."
"Okay."
This will never happen. I have nothing to apologise for.
I know why my Mother is ill, and I know why my Grandmother isn't speaking to me. I have cut off their supply. I won't be around to make them feel good about themselves by their peculiar standards of comparison. The only person left at the Christmas dinner table to belittle will be my Father, and he just smiles and nods whilst I clench my fist under the tablecloth on his behalf. He's no fun, and they feel that they are entitled to have their fun.
Leaving my Father is my only regret.
After the call ended, I did my therapist proud. I skinned my knuckles making the holes in the bathroom door a little bigger, and I screamed for five minutes, maybe - then no more. Leo made me a cup of tea, and he, Truman and I sat and talked about other things, and I felt fine. Too long have I allowed their words to hurt me. I cannot choose their actions, but I can choose my reaction.
Four and a half years since our relationship began, Leo and I shall spend our first Christmas together. He will not call me fat, because he knows I am of a healthy weight. He will not have me sit through hours of detestable television that he knows I will hate. Neither of us shall complain about the gifts we feel we ought to have received. The smile on my face will be genuine, never forced. We will cuddle our small army of cats and tell them one by one that we love them very much. For once, Christmas will be merry.
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Notes on last Christmas, from my other blog.
