Family

The bizarre thing about family is that it’s what most confuses me. When I was younger it was alright. It was far from perfect, with an abusive figure, less freedom, more violence, but it was magically alright. I carried on, or was simply a dead fish going with the flow.

I should get it very straight: I am so well-loved, and I am blessed with such affection. But I learn that people can be mistreated and well-loved at the same time, by the people who are put together despite their likings, and who I call my family.

I don’t know what people mean when they talk about this special bond between a parent and a child. But I do know what it means to me. It is special in the way it has so much power over the lifetime of a child. It matters because someone can need someone that much. It means that to a child, no matter how well-loved by many others, needs someone who is always there, who does what a father does to his child, and someone who does what a mother does to her child. All this revelation was triggered by some random moments of me seeing a man casually being father to his child – because the connection between two people is something uncannily visible to the heart. When that first dawned on me I was ashamed of myself. I was ashamed of myself for admitting I wish I had a father: the wish seems to me, even now, a betrayal, the manifestation of disloyalty and weakness.

At the same time I’ve grown out of all the lies and cover-ups in the name of love. And that is very difficult, because I wish I could unconditionally trust those whom I once trusted unconditionally. Like I did when I was young! That was my rather naïve and perfectionist notion of family: you get to trust them despite everything, even when you don’t love them and they don’t love you. But growing up it’s the other way round: you love them, but you cannot always trust them. And you find yourself guilty for that.

I want to live my life, but sometimes it seems better to be the little dead fish. I didn’t know the price for growing up is family.