Last week...

 

Last week, my sisters text things they haven't had in the month since Dad died. Little things. Sometimes annoying, but consistent. I've been beating myself up because, I still feel numb. I'm not happy, I'm not overly sad. I'm just numb. And I'm beginning to realise that part of that is because my grieving started a very long time ago. Since before I gave Dad back his key. I stopped having the phone calls (unless I called first) He stopped showing up at my door, or walking past. In reality, Dad has only been partially in my life for years now. Since the fire. 

I don't want to relive that here. The fire was the beginning of a new life without a whole lot of people. Some are still on the fringes. I suspect one might be reading this now. I've grown since then, I've moved on. I like to say that I held little funerals in my head for those I walked away from. Deep down, I have to admit that it still hurts, but I won't allow it to control me. I won't play victim to some great injustice. But I also will never forgive those who made a mockery of my Grandfathers' sacrifice with swastikas on the walls, nor those who allowed it.  They may not remember, but our biological grandfather never came home and our adoptive grandfather lost an eye and his hearing. 

I also can't forgive that they mocked my son. Setting things up like a crack house with his medicine syringes. It most likely was funny to them. And no one stopped them. And when things were coming around just a little, I was hit in the face when I politely refused an outing I couldn't afford with a punch proving that they had a second family text stream without me, where they made fun of me. I'm no ones punch line. Yes, we're struggling. But, I refuse to stoop to the level of hurtful. I didn't ask them for anything, I just left them know that I couldn't go to the theater. (Yeah, I'm still bitter on that one) 

I just don't know what that means for the now. I had requested not to be contacted unless it had to do with Dad, a couple of times. Dad's gone. Do I still have an extended family? Do I want the pain that goes along with that? I can't trust them. I won't ask for anything and I won't beg them to accept me. But I do care about what happens to them. I think I always will. I mourn the hope of a close family. Dad was the last thread holding things together. And no, I'm not playing victim. I know I had my place in all of this. I could have reached out more. Coulda, shoulda, woulda if I was a stronger person. 

I was weak, petty and afraid. Afraid of rejection, afraid of being made fun of. Afraid of trusting the wrong people again. I have a strong history of that one. But, I guess if I want to be as fearless as I claim to be, I need to grow a thicker skin. 

I can either mourn the loss of the thought of a close family or suck things up and try to fit in and pretend to trust, I can wish the best for them and live my life my way and hope maybe sometime in the future, they'll feel the same. I'm not going to hold my breath, but I guess there's no harm in hoping. But, I'm not burying myself or squeezing myself into some sort of mold. They either accept who I am, or we all move on. And I'll hold more little funerals in my head.