Christmas was spent in West Virginia, a state that’s actually quite lovely, a state with fewer gun shops and cars in front yards than I remember. We stayed at a spa, a destination equal parts Dirty Dancing and the Shining. Cottages dot the perimeter of the greater campus, which looks like a tiny college, if colleges were full of old white people personally responsible for the existence of both the Polo brand and the grilled cheese sandwich made with Velveeta. According to my imagination, these cottages are also where young women wearing rolled up jean shorts go to make sweet love to men who teach ballroom to young women wearing rolled up jean shorts, where illegal abortions happen to further plot, and exceedingly poor hair and makeup decisions are made. A large main house sits in the middle of the grounds. It’s a multi-storied expanse of a resort home that may or may not have been decorated by a large flamingo. Or Blanche Devereaux. It’s indulgence, all right, hot pink and lime green indulgence, yet I still fail to pinpoint the exact draw of the place.
It was my mother’s idea. In part for fun, in part to indulge a fantasy, perhaps, as I imagine most people do when making their reservations. We’ve not a care but an overdue oil change. We’ve tailored furs and eat beef tournedos on a regular basis, none ever cooked at our hands, of course. We prefer robust reds to rosé and golf to the gym. More likely, it was a fantasy that all is okay with our family, that this is not the first Christmas spent without the man of our house. The man who would have enjoyed the wassail to a point and but would rather have passed the evening sampling each dish made with Stilton. Homeostasis. We’re fine, we’re smiling and we’re walking, heads held high, even if at times we’re holding hands while we walk. Even if at times we’re gripping hands while we walk.
The room was spacious, room to move, room to breathe, room to brush teeth while another puts on an appropriately done face. My sister made sure that was the case, given a long history of overdosing on our togetherness. A walk-in closet would ensure that there was room enough for the finery of three women, the majority of whom wore heels to dine before noon. A bathroom with two sinks would allow for simultaneous face washing, not to mention space enough for several dozen toiletries. It was big, yes. Big enough for three. Turns out, it was also ample room for conflict, for grudges long held, for the complete and recurring metamorphosis from adult to 12 year old. If I’m honest, maybe 8 year old. I’ll take 10.
I spent a good portion of the trip by myself, because even as a grown ass woman, I get into a ridiculous amount of trouble. I didn’t light a Marlboro while mother and sister were at the makeup lesson, although admittedly I very, very, very seriously considered it. That of course would have constituted a familial federal offense, but the lesser transgressions involved a good bit of sassing. As they generally do. Of barking in a most unpleasant tone and huffing for hours with lower lip extended. I was not a woman born to bite her tongue, and missed school days we were taught that elders are to be revered rather than used as models for voodoo dolls made from sandlewood hose. Women like me must be caged at family events, particularly ones of extended duration. We must be plied with cabernet to let veiled insults roll off our backs. So yes, I spent much of my time alone, working or sleeping or eating when the others were at play.
I spent the remainder of the trip being insanely jealous of my sister. A light goes on in my mother when she is around; she effuses pride and delight when she talks about her every accomplishment, whether it’s a promotion at work or a newly purchased couch. “Kris,” my mother will ask, “don’t your sister’s highlights look fantastic?” I nod my very blonde head in the affirmative and wait seconds before commenting snidely that she failed to notice my own. I’m a ball of resentment, of fury at being the kid who isn’t good enough in some way, the one who is somehow second rate. It makes my sister miserable, because she does not have a clue as to what to do about it. It gives my mother the upper hand, because she knows all too well that I was born unable to wear emotion anywhere other than the sleeve. She never fails to call me on it. “When will you get over this?” she asks. “This jealousy of your sister. You really need to get over it.”
It’s a perfectly executed punch to the gut, of course, the downfall of Houdini. It’s a routine that’s been in play for years, practiced with great commitment and a fierce love of the game. Maybe it’s because it’s what we do, what we know, our daily routine. But it’s also because we’re a whole lot of angry, this year more than ever, and there has to be someone toward whom we can hurl that rage. Women who wear pants only when bedridden don’t take anger out on bus boys or friends who manipulate. No, these are the kinds of interpersonal guns pulled only on family. “At least your sister cares about me,” she said at one point, following a perfectly scripted argument. Cue tripping over self to make things right, digging nails into rock and grass and dirt to prevent sliding the entire way down the hill of family relations. “Get past it,” she says.
Turns out I’m not past it. As was evidenced this week , and I’m sure will be brought out more often this year than any of our photo albums, at 35 I’m filled with such anger that it’s as if all the room’s air is caught in my chest. I’m cornered and I have no choice but to yell, to scream full speed ahead, whether it be at the first person in line of sight or into a pillow. It’s a tantrum all right, and I employ them with great skill. Babies use them for what exactly? Catharsis? To get noticed? To get just what they want out of their mothers?
We left wearing strained, painted smiles and chitchatted the bellman before leaving. And on the long drive home, like everyone else who spent Christmas at the resort, booking daily facials and outdressing the Joneses for dinner, I wondered just what it was that I was really after.
31 Comments
What a year-end this is for you. I know this must’ve been a bit hard to write, but it delivers. My mom died 28 (!) years ago this month, but it still affects the family dynamic (in addition to everything else that’s already there). What I mean to say is thanks for writing this – there might be a small book in here, somewhere. :)
Also? Home sweet home – smoke up, K!
I think you know that I identify with most of what you’ve written – and I’m ready to cry because I can’t reach out and give your hand a squeeze right now. Ugh. The pain that family can inflict is like no other.
Want to get drunk? I’m buying.
Oh, family. Bringing out the worst in each other since [enter year of birth]. I don’t really know what to say, but I’m sorry it was a trying holiday.
I have many difficulties with my own mother – not least an irrational & stupid jealousy of my own sister – who personally not worth being jealous of, does get all the attention, all the praise, all the monetary assistance. Admittedly, I need no monetary assistance & really don’t need the same level of attention – bit just once, it would be nice to be acknowledged (not in her presence, maybe) of being the one actually worthy of the praise.
Wow – talk about bitter bitch. So – anyway – maybe I kind of identify with you. Thanks for sharing this.
For what it’s worth, you’re not alone. I have NEVER been the preferred child in the family. I have gotten over this, but my wife doesn’t like letting it go…it *constantly* irritates her that my sister gets all the preferential treatment…she cries wolf and everyone comes running, but I ask for a simple favor and I get snubbed.
It’s this fact combined with several others (my mother willing to be a grandmother only on her own terms, etc.) that has set up the scenario that I’ve talked to my mom twice in 7 months and only seen her once in that time. We skipped Christmas and Tgiving with her entirely.
To be honest, we’re happier for it. But that doesn’t mean I like it.
Your mother compliments somebody? Well, that’s a step up from mine. No, she isn’t a nag or even a bad person at all, but to show happiness or approval or caring or anything positive is like her Achilles heel. In my family, we like each other, but there is no love. This was evidenced at my Christmas.
Here’s to a happy new year where we’re happy despite all the things in our lives that want to make that impossible.
Fuck, that was a good entry.
xoxo.
ouch. my dad – whose family could certainly compete in the Dysfunctional Olympics – calls this phenomenon “circling the wagons…and then firing inward.”
hope there’s lots of pinot and relaxation in your future….
Cheers to family (dis)fun(ction).
While on vacation in Disneyland, I got so mad at my mother for the way she dealt with my sister (10 years my junior). I burst into tears, because I knew I wouldn’t have been treated with such leniency under the same circumstances. Here’s to family vacations; this is why they only occur once a year or less!
Oh wow. Sometimes I am so glad to be an only child – except that it means my parents fight each other instead.
Anger is delicious, and hurt and all of those things too. I don’t admit that to myself ever. It’s savory. I’ve always preferred savory to sweet. Thanks.
Gosh, sounds like a tough “christmas.” It makes me wonder why we do these things. Why we let our families hurt us. Why our families hurt us. And why we go back for more. The idea of a family holiday that is a rerun of unresolved childhood crap with mean or manipulative ‘rents makes me wonder if it’s worth it. What would happen if you let yourself slide down the mountain? Maybe it’s too hard to contemplate. Hope your hands heal.
I commend you for your restraint and for trying to avoid the inevitable conflicts… But does your mom think you’re “sulking” if you spend time alone during family things? That’s the one I always get. I’ve just gotten up and walked out from arguments with my sister and am accused of being pouty and childish if i go, but I’d have been called bitter and rude if I’d stayed and had it out.
No win.
We’ll always be family for you. You are welcome in our home and will will have open arms and lots of wine.
It makes me sad that over and over again, we try to win our parent’s approval. How is it that we can be thrown back to our childhood so quickly by one small act or comment?
I’m finding that friends have turned out to be the family that we want around us. I just hope that I can be a better parent than some of the examples in our lives.
That was a very moving post. We’re here for you.
Lots of love & hugs from all of us.
“Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”
You remember that, okay? This is powerful writing and thank you for sharing. I wish you had enjoyed your Christmas more, but best wishes for the New Year. Your family isn’t the only one who puts the “fun” in dysfunctional. Trust me.
So, tell me more about the “rolled up jean shorts”, the tongue biting, and of what rolls off your back. Then maybe about the lighting the Marlboro.
[Then the part about my being an insensitive jerk just to grab a cheap laugh if you must -- go ahead, take your best shot and transfer some of that anger. There, now doesn't that feel better. No? Then let's try it again...]
Thank you for that very moving post. It’s such a cliche, but we always hurt the ones we love most- and vice versa. No one ever “gets past it.” Even if we forgive, we can’t forget years and years of family feuds and sibling rivalries. When I was with my family over Thanksgiving, my brother put me in a headlock. And not in a joking way- he has a major temper and I had bruises.
Not to claim I’m totally innocent, either.
Lord the holidays can be tough.. but I hope you have a bright New Year ahead of you.
Yeah, for some, an extended family get together can be so much fun. For others, it can be one of the most stressful experiences ever known to mankind. I fall into the latter category. As such, I always feel a vacation to get over my vacation is in order.
Oh, and anyone who makes grilled cheese sandwiches with Velveeta should be taken out back and, well, you know. Gouda for the win I feel.
thank you…
xoxo
Your relationship with your Mom/Sister sounds frighteningly familiar. I feel your pain.
This turned my stomach because I know what some of that feels like. As always, you put it into gorgeous words. Thanks for sharing it.
I’m a bit late on this but I just have to say, isn’t it amazing how these familial relationships never change. My sister is the favorite and it has taken my years to realize it’s ok, she just needs more.
On a different note there is a shot out to you on jodifur tomorrow!
Thanks for sharing an all too familiar story!
Nothing is ever good enough for my mother. It has always been this way & it is part & parcel of her Core Being- it will never change. When I reached my limit ( a story for another day) I withdrew from her life until she had to have others seek me out. Now, I take care of her needs but as soon as she starts up- I’m Gone! I’m too old to be treated like Denny Dim-Wit & I won’t have it!
Ah, families. My sister was always the favorite in my mother’s eyes. Mom always went running to her whenever there was a “crisis” whether she needed to or not. “She needs me!”. Yeah, right. Years ago I made a comment about something that had happened to me (that mom should’ve remembered) and she acted like it had never happened and brushed it aside. I then told her she couldn’t remember because she had her nose so far up my sister’s ass that she couldn’t see anything else. It just came out. And it felt good.
My mother, whom I adored, died this year leaving my brother and I to care for my father. My brother handles caring for the house- everything else is mine. All of Dad’s doctors & meds, handling anything that requires reading and writing, & dealing with talking about and regulating his poop. Given that, Dad only has eyes for my brother. In every conversation you can count the seconds until he brings up my brother. The only time he will leave the house is in the company of my brother or to visit my brother. AHHHHH! I suppose with him I should be glad not to be the chosen one, but still.
I’m pretty sure that anyone who grew up in a family with sisters & a controlling mother (mine, at least) can relate to this functioning dysfunction.
Could be the reason wine was invented in the first place…
I can’t imagine having to deal with that from my mother. Intentional jealousy? Really???
I’ve been a silent lurker for years but had to comment here. Sometimes I think you are writing my life. Similar story, deceased father, my younger brother the favorite son with constant crisis, and stabs from my mother to me on…
Drinking too much (not enough to tolerate all of this “fun”)
My mother being too old to pull together Christmas Eve dinner. Um, hello…nobody cares what we eat and long as there is wine
And my favorite…how if I were married we’d be having Christmas at my house.
All of which pushes me to the breaking point of shouting as I climb into my car to escape…”I, the only child who supports themselves am so NOT the screw up of this family!”
I did feel better after a detour to my grandparents for some time alone with them (10am and they were testing the eggnog with the housekeeper)…for them to confirm that I am in fact the most successful, beautiful, smartest, perfect child.
I’ve been sitting on this one for awhile, feeling your pain. As much as I try and much progress as I make, my mom can still send me straight back to kindergarten faster than anyone. I’m realizing, more and more, that a lot of this is my own damn fault. Which sucks more than being able to blame it all on her.
I’m sorry.
I wish I could figure out how it is that the very people who really do love us most can also, with very little effort, make us feel like the biggest pile of shite in the world.
again, let me adopt you. my mother would like you more than me.;)