On the thickness of blood

Anne Arkham describes how it feels to be comforted by her dad. Beautifully written as always, but reading that, and the comments, left me feeling strangely alienated. I don’t seem to know what they’re talking about.

I can’t even imagine opening up to either of my parents in that way; still less feeling better for it. With my mom, the tables were turned too long ago – she’s been the little girl in the relationship for at least 15 years. My dad only needed comforting more recently, but before that, we just didn’t relate in that way. We’re friends. We care about each other. But he’s not someone I’d turn to for comfort.

I don’t mean to sound sorry for myself. I have an abundance of love, friendship and support in my life. I feel plenty cared for. It’s just that “family” is not a concept that has ever meant much to me.

A friend said to me the other day, “But you do love your mom, right?” Well, I guess I do. I care what happens to her. She has the power to hurt me. I want her to share what’s going on in my life… to an extent. When she’s not really pissing me off, I can feel affectionate indulgence for her, and I remember how close we used to be when I was little. I have a picture of her at age three, or thereabouts, that fills me with tenderness and heartache. But I don’t feel warmly towards her. I don’t feel able to say “I love you” without a liar’s guilt.

And I feel a little bit sad about that.