Black Sheep Christmas
Someone commented on one of my other posts--the one about my complex relationship with my mother--and said that writing is like therapy. The commenter was largely right. That’s certainly not ALL that writing is. But it’s one component.
I’m relaxing in the apartment I’m dog-sitting at right now, in the west side of Santa Barbara. I’m on the comfy white couch, my feet on the thick coffee table. The dog I’m caring for is lying on the adjacent sofa, softly breathing, curled up asleep. Outside I hear cars swishing lightly back and forth on Highway 101. Otherwise it’s very quiet. I’m alone. My girlfriend lives 50 minutes north and she spent the day with her family up there.
This morning I walked the dog around the neighborhood. We ended up bumping into a nice little park, which was verdant and shaded and lovely, full of fall/winter leaves everywhere, and a dry gully where water must rush when it rains. It was around 8am, completely empty and silent out. Dew glistened on the grass. I passed old huge iron barbecue grills. A little stage. There were trails. Mud. I felt the Sun against my skin and snelled the mud and grass.
After this I picked up my parents. They live across town up on a hill called the Riviera. (Stupendous views.) My dad, of course, with his cancer and his new chemo regimen, looked exhausted already, yet chipper. He looked nice, in his collared button-up shirt. He looked content. Seventy-seven and dying but with family.
My mom was her usual controlling, frantic self. Maybe I’m being too hard on her. It just jags me a bit, her anxiety and backseat-driving, her hyperactivity and incessant worry.
So anyway it took us an hour and fifteen to get to Westlake, to my sister’s house. My sister and I are polar opposites in every way conceivable, which is to say we’re very much alike but in strange ways. We’re half siblings; thirteen years apart. We both have late December birthdays: she just turned 53; I’m turning 40 in a week. She’s always been magnificently conventional. Good college. High-paying job. Marriage. Two kids. Dog. Cat. The works. Big expensive house. Two car garage.
Then there’s me: college dropout; former alcoholic; wayward artist; tattooed; intense. I’ve bounced around from apartment to apartment, house to house and back again since I left home when I was 19. Nothing I ever did made much conventional sense. I followed my heart, not my head. I did what I wanted, come what may. I lived my life in my terms. Still do.
The visit was three hours, from 3-6. My folks and I; my niece n nephew; my sister and brother-in-law; my cousin and her dad. It was fine. Externally all went as usual. The awkward, superficial chatter about money and sports. The perfection of the house in its glittering glory. Talking with my niece about freshman year at U.C. Davis. My bro-in-law playing tackle football with my nephew. My cousin yapping with my mom about art. The dog running round wildly. My sister and I stumbling out a fractured, uncomfortable fake chat.
I’m sensitive, I admit. Especially with regards to family. It brings up a lot for me. All my life I’ve craved my mother’s understanding, my father’s respect, my sister’s acknowledgement. I have some of that trio, but far from all. I know: that’s life. I know: I’m not a victim. I agree. A hundred percent. And no one’s doing anything wrong. It would be absurd for me to expect anything from anyone. We’re all totally who we are. Myself obviously included. My sister asked me about my dog walking. It’s clear she doesn’t take me seriously. She always throws in little remarks. Subtle. About how all I have to do is take care of my cat. About how you’re not a real adult until you get married and have kids.
What’s painful to me is that my sister has not only never understood me...she’s never liked me. It’s like I’m an alien, some strange cretin she can’t grasp. I know she thinks me dog walking, at forty, is pathetic. (I’m also book editing on and off. Off lately.) She’d be horrified if one of her children ended up “like me.” Is my sister really this superficial, this shallow? Honestly? Yes. Sadly. She is. And her husband is too, of course. Don’t get me wrong--he’s a good guy. He really is. But if it’s not sports or the stock market he doesn’t get it.
It’s such a powerful façade, ya know? I do think as I get older I care about this stuff a little less each year. What gets me is the skin-level performance of my family, of Christmas, of gathering together and giving each other useless material possessions. My sister judges me by my exterior. Thing is: I’ve never cared about money. At least, not beyond surviving. Money has always been a means to living life, not the end in itself. I’ve always had something which burns much brighter and deeper: Creative passion.
The thing about me is: I’m bad at performing. I’m real; as real as they come. I’m not interested in skin-deep. I’m not interested in social mask wearing. I’m not interested in perception-management. In making people on the outside think I’m all good.
The thing is: My niece--my sister’s teenage daughter--tried to kill herself last year. And she nearly succeeded. (She had to have her entire pelvis reconstructed.) This exposed my sister’s alcoholism. Which exposed the fracture between she and her husband. And the codependency with the kids. Etc. So here we are 1.5 years later. I left New York City. I’m taking care of my terminally ill father. He’s not my sister’s biological father but he raised her since she was ten. She’s been completely absent from his experience, since his diagnosis. I’m 12 years sober. I’m close with my niece.
So in the end? It’s not a competition. It’s not a Manichaean game. It’s not binary. It’s just her being her. Me being me. Life being life. 
What can I say? It’s good--and painful--to be alive. I’m not filled with rage or anger or misery or fear or depression or resentment or sadness. Nor am I filled with happiness.
I’m just here. Right now. This moment.
I guess that commentator was right: Writing IS a form of therapy.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone 🎄🎄🎄