Outliers

In the first part of January I wrote the following post and never published it because I was afraid of starting family drama. Now, a half a year, and not one single post later.... I find that I don't care anymore. 

I. Just. Can't. Even.

I've made some sort of nasty trade-off that I wasn't aware of. I'm stoppered up. Can't write, can't draw, and can't paint. I have sat down time and time again and the following post glares at me from my "drafts." It mocks me every time. I sit down to write and see it there, then I have to re-read it and discover that it's still killing me.

Honestly, I hope my family no longer checks this blog, because I still don't want to start drama, but my sanity comes first.... and the following rings true.

Christmas was lovely in many ways this year. 

Saw the movie White Christmas for the first time and had a few very welcome gut laughs... an activity that was made all the more delightful since I could hear my kids laughing along with me.  We had Gingerbread cookies and gluten free Ninjabread cookies, fudge, and english toffee, and endless amounts of popcorn. Did a fun activity where we dipped red plastic spoons in chocolate and then rolled them in teensy marshmallow bits and wrapped them up in cellophane bags, so we could have extra fancy hot chocolate at our big Christmas Eve party.

Birdie's Aunt T'amy bought her a ticket to go see the Foo Fighters in SLC as an early sweet sixteen birthday gift, but then couldn't take her because of a mandatory rehearsal that night (T'amy is in the Mo-Tab) and so I haaaaaad to take her using T'amy's ticket. Woe is me. They played three long hours of awesome.

Caroling, an amazing party for our church congregation, lights and just enough snow in the wee hours of Christmas morning to qualify as a White Christmas here in Newtown, Utah.

There were some amazing take-aways from the season... but there was also this one thing.

At one of the gatherings, I had a conversation with a sibling about how things are now so very different from how they used to be in our family. She talked about how peaceful (relatively speaking) our family gatherings are, how our interactions are so much kinder than one would guess from how we grew up. She reminisced about the toxic sarcasm and viscous jibes that we used to deal out to each other. We loved each other, but it was a biting and rasping sort of a love.  Without pointing too may fingers, lets just say that we were a family of six smart-ass kids being raised by a very high functioning autistic woman and an emotionally absent father.

That conversation, and a few family interactions really opened my eyes.

You see, I think I have this strangely idealized vision of my family of origin. Like we all get along so famously and well.  Like all of that pain and viscousness is in the past.

Sweet fiction.

***

In my mid twenties I met and married a guy, I hesitate to call him a man. I see now that he was mostly a hurt child in a man's body... let's just say that he was abusive in nearly every way a man can be abusive to a woman. I'm not going to list it out right now, that's not really the point. 

The point is, until recently I have viewed this person and the relationship as an outlier in my life.

There was that one conversation that I will never forget, because it so perfectly encapsulates the mess that was he, and I, and that messed up marriage.

   "Themama," he said one day after a particularly bad fight. A fight where he hadn't laid a hand or a boot on me, but managed maximum damage nonetheless.  Anyone who has been through a violently abusive relationship can tell you, the real damage is rarely done with fists. It's the words that landed that you're trying to slip decades later. "Themama, we just argue very differently." He wasn't being unkind at that moment, he actually was explaining like you would to a little child. "You see, you argue because you think you are "right" about whatever it is we're fighting about. So you try to explain to me why you are right. But when I argue, whoever hurts the worst at the end, loses. You'll always lose to me. Always."

Really sucks, and I'm not saying my family was some horrible or abusive mess.... 

           ... but I AM saying he was not the outlier I thought he was. As a matter of fact, in some ways- he made perfect sense. The whole idea of "whoever hurts the most at the end is the loser" was not some new experience for me. I had just never heard it said out loud before.

The thing is, I really am that thick. When I engage in an argument, I really do think that I'm right, and I tend to be pretty good at explaining why I think so. Later in life I have even made a bit of a study of the logical fallacies of argument, and I try to remain balanced and rational... but I realize now,  I never did have a freaking clue about the rules of engagement when it comes to my family of origin. 

I'll always lose. Always.