Who puts the fun in dysfunctional? Families! I feel fortunate that my family was small – my parents, an older brother, and me. Our grandparents died when we were fairly young. Our extended families (aunts, uncles, cousins) lived quite some distance from us, so we didn’t see them often. Most I cannot even name anymore. Now, my parents are long gone and my brother lives in Boston, while I’m in Florida. We see each other every few years, talk occasionally, email periodically, and, for all practical purposes, have a relationship that demands very little from either of us. Which works for us. Not to say our family wasn’t dysfunctional. It was, with parents who struggled through their relationship and ultimately divorced. With a father who struggled with another relationship, that of prescription drugs, the cause of much pain for all of us, for many years. And, like all families, we experienced many other dynamic, exciting, fun, sad, disappointing, and defining events which influenced our childhoods, thereby shaping our adult lives. Some good, some bad, but all in some way responsible for our evolution into the characters we have become, and roles we now play, in our lives. And it is what it is.
Thanksgiving was last week and my house was full. My partner’s children, 4 out of 5 of them anyway, were here, with their significant others, and some with their children. The activity and energy levels were, well, let’s just call them chaotic and intense. Lots of movement going on here. Me? I watch and suffer from periodic anxiety attacks. Peace, quiet, routine, neat, tidy, organized . . . these are things which define my life, my outlook, my house, based on my upbringing. Six or seven kids running around look like whirling dervishes to me (and which seem to, in my mind, multiply exponentially as they rotate throughout the house), causes me to experience some level of fear, for my home, my possessions, my sanity. I’m weird like that, and I know it’s just me, and I know why (which, sadly, does not lessen my anxiety). The parents, however, are lost in conversations and laughter of their own, and appear unconcerned. But unconcerned only in the sense that they are accustomed to the running, the screams, the slamming doors, the unbridled, curious, happiness and utter chaos small herds of children tend to bring to the environment.
The parents, mostly siblings in this case, have their own cast of characters, and their own dynamics going on. Sometimes a bit of posturing and bragging rights of how far they’ve come, how successful and full their lives are; some reminiscing about their childhood experiences, and sometimes a bit of teasing each other, or their mother, who can be an easy target, at least from their point of view. She takes the ribbing good-naturedly for the most part, filled with pride because she raised her children to be good and independent and self-sufficient and successful. They each have done well for themselves and they are loving parents themselves now, in – what appear to be, and for the time being – solid relationships. There is though, the ever present sibling rivalry. It exists, mostly quietly and in the background, like most sibling rivalries. It is incessant and unrelenting – a low-pitched hum, subtle, just under the surface noise of excited conversations. You can sense it, and sometimes you can even hear it, when the laughter seems just a little too forced, a little louder and longer than the conversation would dictate. In the end though, when all is said and done, you realize – and hopefully they realize as well – they are just as dysfunctional as most every other family in the world, and it works for them. For me? I breathe a long sigh of relief when the last of the herd leaves, the door closes, and I can once again hear my thoughts and the Grandfather clock, which ticks gently in the background. And that’s just me.
But you know what? When all is said and done, it is all good, for everyone. Thanksgiving, of all times of the year, is the one where families endure the stress of being together for a few hours, with all their baggage, filled with all their insecurities, because they all know there is one underlying truth about all family matters. One age-old truism that has always existed, and always will exist, regardless of how dysfunctional – or not – a family may be. In family matters? Family, matters.
~ jwb ~