I read somewhere that Millennials are the largest demographic that has (voluntarily) little to no contact with their families (I think I’m paraphrasing this pretty badly).
Part 1: The background that no one cares about
I am one of those silent, or not-so-silent, Millennials. For the most part, my entire biological family was cut out of my life. It happened in phases – my estranged, couldn’t care less father was the first to go in my teens. We tried occasionally to reconnect in my twenties but there was too much hurt there, most likely on both sides.
My maternal family were supportive but I think never thought about it too deeply. Occasionally, there would be dismissive, not-quite-passive-aggressive comments that led me to feel they thought I was just “up to my usual dramatics.” That came to a head around my 36th birthday when logging into a long-abandoned Facebook account revealed a message from my father, wishing me a happy 37th birthday (no, the age is not a typo).
Years of blocking him on various social media and a disastrous attempt to explain my side to half-siblings who were told another story for multiple decades left me drained. But at 36 (or, as some think, 37) and years of therapy, I had had enough. I unleashed years of fury, first telling him everything he missed in my life; accomplishments, characteristics, and so on. Then I made it clear I knew who he was, what he said about me, how he poisoned others against me so that he could play the victim. Finally, I got to say what I always wanted but never had the opportunity to: He was not in my life by my choice and my life was better because of it.
I sent the message to my family who were all shocked at the vitriol I had inside of me. The hatred, the venom. They didn’t see it as the gift it was – a chance to tell the terror of my childhood to fuck off – and backed away, a little nervous to be near me.
My maternal family was next to go, eventually culminating with a letter to my mother. Whereas my father couldn’t be bothered to care about me unless it could be used as a weapon against my mother, Mom was different. She was, in my opinion, disappointed by the reality of her life. I think she had a vision of what her life was supposed to be and felt robbed of it, which turned her into a bitter bully.
Living at home in my teen years was hell. She was never physically abusive, but it was clear she did NOT like me. I was too quiet, stayed in my room too much, liked weird music, wore too much black. I wanted piercings, she’d rather I get tattoos. I was a voracious reader, she hung out with Harley Davidson heads. Huge bikers dropped me off at a school dance once, which looking back…okay, that was pretty funny.
My mother had a way of scanning the room, looking for something to snipe about; you could feel the air in the room change when it was happening. She was thoroughly disappointed in everything – her current marriage, the bitter failure of her previous marriage, having to work instead of being taken care of, not having enough money, and her weird daughter who was nothing like her.
Writing the title of this, “Part 1,” made me uncomfortable because it felt, in many ways, true yet attention-seeking. On one hand, my background doesn’t matter and it’s not unique; many people I’ve met had similar, complicated relationships with their parents. Yet, I can still hear my mother’s voice in my head saying both sides of this:
No one wants to hear about your problems/Oh your life was SO hard.
Maybe it wasn’t. For many years, we had an unstable home situation, moving from place to place. But that leveled out towards the end of my teen years. Regardless of the stress and uncertainty I know there was love. I know my maternal family loved me, my mother, too, in her way.
But there was an unequivocal truth underneath the surface – I was other. And that love always came with an asterisk.
