No Stigma, but not my finest hour

My family story is not as convoluted as I once pictured it. Sure, we're weird and have a hefty dose of things plenty of people only whisper about as part of our day to day life, but (and I mean this with all every iota of sincerity in my being) plenty of other people are royally messed up. Like, next level warped.

And regardless of how intense things can get on a daily basis when my mom is having troubles, it is what it is. My mom is an abuse survivor. She has been battling a mental illness for more than three decades. If you've been around on my blog at all, this is not news to you. But I say it, I repeat it, I state it over and over. On purpose. Because so many others will not.

So my dad and I do our best to take care of her, to get her the help she needs and do what we can. I have tried over the course of my life to come to terms with my mom's illness and history and how it has impacted my life and our relationship. And just when I think I've got a handle on it, as is often the case (at least in my experience) I uncover some unexpected wrinkle.

The other day my aunt, a woman I haven't seen in almost 20 years (unless you count social media re-posts of recipes), posted a cute picture. A sweet image about loving your sister.

And it set me the fuck off.

I fought the urge, over several days, to start some serious drama. WTF, me? Get a grip!

See, the last time my aunt and mom saw each other it was going through their mom's stuff after her funeral. There has probably been less than a handful of calls in all the time. Maybe one letter. But hey, at least there's pre-printed Christmas cards most years from her! And she comments on my social media posts regarding my mom to say hello or wish her well on her behalf.

On that sweet, sisterly post she put up, a friend of hers asked how her sister was doing. My aunt liked her comment but said nothing. At least not publicly. Nobody else between her family or 'ours' liked or commented. While I seethed, my fingers threatening to unleash venom.

I want to reply to this person and say that my aunt wouldn't know how her sister is. That her illness has ravaged her life. That my aunt can't deal with their past and more or less walked away from my mom decades ago.  That when I wrote to my mom's siblings years ago at one of mom's worst points in her illness, nothing changed.

This is wounded and protective daughter. This is the me that howls for the agony my parents have endured on their own. I want reparations for a wound that will never heal.

A wound that wasn't my aunt's fault.

My aunt is an abuse survivor, too. While I mourn the connections my parents lost over the years, families don't fracture for no reason. The strain on her over the years took a toll as well. I know bits and pieces, enough to know it's not been easy. Enough to know she probably misses my mom but doesn't know how to bridge that divide. Enough to know that when I wrote to her, detailing what I'd learned about my mom's past and their childhood, she wept. It's not fair of me to have expectations of these people I never really have gotten to know, my aunt or the other siblings. It's not fair to me or them.

It's a convenient lightening rod for my frustrations. Assign a blame or blow up at the slightest of provocations over something well-meant or at the very least not well thought through. Not my finest moment to be sure. Not my worst either.

The timing didn't help. Mom's been declining enough to make her psychiatrist concerned. As a family, we've begun discussing what may be coming next and consider what plans or arrangements we should be preparing for. I've tried over the course of a few cards to explain to my mom's siblings that Mom is declining. I gave up on the updates when all I get in response are those lovely pre-printed holiday cards. But mostly silence.

Again, these people have their demons, too. If you've tried desperately to forget hell on earth, how would you handle random reminders of that time? And my mom isn't capable of having a deep and meaningful connection with these people anymore (not that they know it). If I'm being honest, at this point trying to interact with them doesn't benefit her as far as I can tell. So the updates from me have stopped.

Maybe one day I'll get the opportunity to sit down with my aunt and talk to her. Maybe it'll be healing and cathartic. Maybe it'll be nothing of the kind. It's just as likely it won't happen. It's becoming more clear to me that there is no information I could get, no extra piece of their story, that's going to make things any better. It happened. They both are the way they are and their kids are the way we are. There are things I don't need to know. Nightmares I don't need made more real.

I'm down from seething over that post to mildly irked. For me, it represents such loss. A gigantic disconnection. And no good will come from my flying off the handle about it. I can march around with a banner about mental illness and supporting my mom all day, it doesn't mean the rest of her family is there. Or will ever be there.