"a leaf falls"

I read an article this morning about different kinds of friendships. I tried to tell one of my brothers about it, but he changed the subject, because he refuses to talk about certain things. And yet he can still make fun of me for being so incompetent that I can kill a spider plant. [it's not dead yet, and the reason it's struggling is that it won't root, and I don't think it's funny. I worry about it]. My family have finally learned to say "I love you," but they can't prove it.

The bad patch started months ago when I began to feel alien - like Gregor Samsa, turned into a bug, everybody looking at me like I was disgusting. Then a few weeks ago my brothers ganged up on me in a family chat, and I had to leave the conversation semi-permanently (also, I cried myself sick and nearly tried to kill myself. I'm such a drama queen *annoyed face*). It had been my only daily link to them. Things were a bit strained.

Then there was Ikea. Except there wasn't. A little sister picked me up for a family trip to Ikea (because people were going, and it became a thing. Whatever. I wanted a curtain rod), but she was in a really awful mood, and kept turning the music louder. I am sensitive to sound, and it was terrible music to begin with, so I rolled down my window to try and distract myself so I wouldn't lose my temper or start to cry. I didn't lose my temper, but she did. She started yelling at me, over and over, and even slapped my other sister, so I asked her to let me out of the car. So they dropped me off on the side of the road, sixty blocks from my home, and went to Ikea without me. They left me to walk. Middle of the summer. Middle of the city. No water. Dropped me off and let me walk.

I'm strong enough. I can do things without them. I don't need them, but that hurt worse than anything I can remember feeling. It's not what they did, it's what it meant. It simply meant that my safety didn't matter to them.

My mother and other sister maintain a careful neutrality, as if saying something kind to me would somehow tip some balance of power - as if it would commit them to some kind of non-existent intra-familial alliance. And again, it's not what they said, it's what it meant. What their "neutrality" meant was that my feelings don't matter. That it doesn't matter to them that I'm hurting and alone, because if it mattered, they would reach out. They would try to save the relationship.

When my mother and sister passed through town (twice), I invited them to stop by and say hello (it was more like a cry for help, because I'm not in a good place), but they wouldn't waste twenty minutes, even to pee in my toilet and run. How much more evidence do I need? At that point, it had started to sink in how little I matter to them.

Mom said, "but I didn't stop to see Stephen or Michael either." And the thing I want to shout at her is, "I'm not like them!" I have never been like them. I've never been like any of them. I'm a changeling.

And then today, when I wanted to talk through the Ikea incident so we could be friends again, my sister returned to her biting "neutrality" - pointing out, although she wasn't even there, that it was my fault too. Because assigning blame has, if I think about it, always been a higher priority to her than kindness. Or truth, And my brother changed the subject.

Enough. I am convinced. These stick figures are not my friends. My friendship doesn't matter to them. I don't matter to them. All that matters to these people is that brittle veneer of pleasantness - that meaningless whitewashing that, like the Taj Mahal, hides only death and bones.

But while I believed they were friends, I felt well. I could pretend. I had the emotional strength to be the friend that I wanted them to be. I could believe I had a support system, and I felt safe.

After that conversation today, I slowly realized the weight that I now carry. I am alone. I needed to talk to someone, but I had nobody. I called my dad, and listened patiently to a list of his current television shows. For lots of different reasons, I don't even feel like I can turn to my closest friends, and one of those reasons is that my little brother constantly reminds me that nobody wants to listen to this crap.

That's why I'm writing, even though I am fully aware that this blog is the most depressing thing on the internet right now, and that INCLUDES the presidential election nonsense.

This blog is how I talk to myself. Because I am not well, but I care about me. Jesus cares, and I care. I care even when I know I made mistakes. I am capable of loving something that is flawed. I am capable of listening when I am angry, and I am capable of withholding judgment. I can show love, because I feel love. I can forgive. I am stronger than this, and I will be even stronger when it is over.

This Olympic week is special because ten refugees have formed their own team. They have not had the facilities to train, and are at a significant disadvantage among millions of dollars of privilege. I would be surprised if they won even a single medal. They are alone and obscure. NBC doesn't cover their events. Their home countries did not want them. But I love them.

I need to accept the truth about my family. I need to be a refugee, and maybe someplace will let me in someday.