What is family?

There are as many answers to that question as people who are asked. For me, defining it has always been difficult. For me, the very word "family" has often been enough to trigger feelings of dread. When I was a child, "family" meant me, my mother, my father, and my grandparents on my mother's side. I knew that, at least in principle, I had other family members, like my father's relatives, uncles, cousins, great aunts. But we didn't talk to those people. I was discouraged from associating with my father's side of the family, and other branches of my mother's side of the family.

One Christmas, my great aunt, cousins, niece and nephew came to visit. There was a terrible argument that involved yelling, objects being hurled through the air and words I had never heard before. I wandered out of the house and walked the field, pretending I was somewhere else. When I came back, they were gone, and that was the last I ever saw of any of them. I remember I even had to give back all the presents they had brought for me. What the hell happened that day? The only person left alive I could ask is my mother, and she'd probably suspect I was spying on her for them if I asked. (I wish that was hyperbole.)

There are times when I wonder about the family that was disowned. Were they really bad people, or just people my mother and grandparents didn't get along with? They were still blood. Might I have found some measure of kinship with them, had I been allowed to? Who were they? I'll never know, because the war that began that day permanently severed any ties I might have had with them. Apparently, I had a gay uncle. My third cousin (whom I had an unholy crush on at the age of 14, when I met him at my great grandmother's funeral) is also gay. They are living their lives somewhere I cannot go, and it isn't worth the effort now to find them.

My own family, those I am related to by blood, have been the cause of little else but pain, so I often sought comfort with others' families. My best (and only) friend in elementary school lived across the street from me, and I liked spending time with her, her siblings and her parents. It seemed to me that they had a "real" family, while mine was ... not real. I must have been adopted, I thought. My parents obviously didn't love each other, but my friend Sheri's family was different. Her parents were loving and warm, and they treated all the neighbourhood kids like they were their own. The family went on trips together, supported each other, and didn't judge others for not being just like them. I know there were arguments. I know there were problems. But there was no problem big enough to tear them apart.

My parents didn't like me hanging around them. They told me they were a bad influence, because they were Mormons. Well, they never tried to convert me. All they did was treat me like I wanted to be treated. Was that so bad? To my mother's relief, they moved away when I was in 6th grade.... or was it 7th? I forget. Anyway, that was that.

Flash forward to the end of my parents' marriage. I'm 17 years old. I have found one person who does not treat me badly, and actually reached out to me because he was afraid I might commit suicide. He lived down the street. Brian and I dated for six years, which is a huge chunk of your life when you're only 22. I'm not going to go into my tumultuous relationship with him, but I want to explain the reason why his family was both wonderful and terrible for me. You see, his mother loved me dearly. She took me in as one of her own and tried to undo some of the damage my real parents had done. She tried to make me feel at ease. I had a very hard time trusting her, despite how warm and wonderful she was to me.

The rest of Brian's family didn't like me. His sister and brother-in-law didn't appreciate my living there without paying rent, and they had a toddler with autism, which further put stress on the entire family. Brian's father was a selfish, ill-tempered alcoholic. I was already suffering the symptoms of complex PTSD, unmedicated, and their behaviour triggered alternating bouts of hiding in Brian's room and emotionally violent outbursts over the tiniest things. I feel awful about what I put that family through. At the time, though, it just felt like more rejection. And when Brian's mother died, just when I was beginning to trust her, I thought, "Well, that's typical."

And now, here I am. I am a member, by marriage, of Matt's family. His parents and grandparents have shown me nothing but kindness, but I still harbour a fear that, somehow, they will find out who and what I really am, and try to stand in the way of me and Matt. It's a ridiculous fear with no basis in reality, at least, not their reality. For me, though, there will always be a sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don't have much experience that supports any other scenario. Most of my friends come from broken, abusive or non-existent families. (Except Sheri, who now lives in Florida and has her own.) I don't want to sabotage myself, but I still cling to this need to have a backup plan. I still cannot fully relax.

I want to have the warm, fuzzy feelings other people have when they say that word and think of the memories surrounding it. Yet, there is a part of me that still wants to hide away. I do not know if I will ever feel as close to blood and by-marriage relatives as I am "supposed" to. I would just like "family" not to be a dirty word for me any more, because it isn't fair to me or ... my family, whomever they are.