Final Tuesday
Hey, let's talk about family! Then let's talk about tradition. We'll throw in some drama for good measure.
Around a week ago, David passed away. He had been wasting away since Grammy died, with nobody to take care of the stubborn old fool, and then he fell badly ill when his persisting cardiovascular problems suddenly went from bad to worse. I'm going to admit right away, I didn't feel at all sorry to hear about this, not after the way he treated me or my grandmother. I can't say I was happy, but I certainly wasn't crying. His passing is, quite frankly, good news for me in several ways: it means no more having to spend holidays with his redneck family, no more putting up with his racist, bigoted rambling, and no more listening to his drunken, sarcastic remarks about my lack of a love-life. I figured, all I have to do is make it through the funeral, and I never have to deal with any of that again.
But it wasn't so easy. Once again, the same old drama from my well-meaning but old-fashioned family flared up - no matter how much I didn't care for him, I should be more respectful to him and his family; I should offer my condolences to his kids; I should show up for not just the funeral, but the visitation as well. I should be the perfect little prince for my reputable family.
I agreed to go to the funeral. But that's it. I always want to try and show a little compassion, even to people who aren't so compassionate themselves, but I have to draw a line in the sand, because that man never did anything to earn my respect. Leaving aside that he taunted me on every possible occasion and proved himself to be a terrible person in general, he was an alcoholic mess that abused my grandmother, verbally and physically. She stayed with him, though, out of compassion - and because she had problems with being on her own, dependency issues.
So, the funeral was on Wednesday, the visitation on Tuesday. Right on schedule, Tuesday afternoon, I receive a call from my parents, asking me to come to the visitation anyway, despite my insistence that I wouldn't be attending. I refused, and a very unpleasant discussion resulted. They definitely don't like me going against their wishes, not after they spent years training and programming me as a kid to be quiet and obedient. Now they aren't speaking to me again, and this should last for a few more weeks before they come back, refuse to admit any fault, but offer an indirect form of apology.
I can respect their stance. They are being VERY forgiving and putting their best face forward even when dealing with this man. But this is an especially sensitive subject for me after what happened on that lovely Christmas.
This will pass, but all of these wounds are starting to pile up. A lot of things are being said without much forethought, and they're far too set in their ways to see the damage they're doing.
Around a week ago, David passed away. He had been wasting away since Grammy died, with nobody to take care of the stubborn old fool, and then he fell badly ill when his persisting cardiovascular problems suddenly went from bad to worse. I'm going to admit right away, I didn't feel at all sorry to hear about this, not after the way he treated me or my grandmother. I can't say I was happy, but I certainly wasn't crying. His passing is, quite frankly, good news for me in several ways: it means no more having to spend holidays with his redneck family, no more putting up with his racist, bigoted rambling, and no more listening to his drunken, sarcastic remarks about my lack of a love-life. I figured, all I have to do is make it through the funeral, and I never have to deal with any of that again.
But it wasn't so easy. Once again, the same old drama from my well-meaning but old-fashioned family flared up - no matter how much I didn't care for him, I should be more respectful to him and his family; I should offer my condolences to his kids; I should show up for not just the funeral, but the visitation as well. I should be the perfect little prince for my reputable family.
I agreed to go to the funeral. But that's it. I always want to try and show a little compassion, even to people who aren't so compassionate themselves, but I have to draw a line in the sand, because that man never did anything to earn my respect. Leaving aside that he taunted me on every possible occasion and proved himself to be a terrible person in general, he was an alcoholic mess that abused my grandmother, verbally and physically. She stayed with him, though, out of compassion - and because she had problems with being on her own, dependency issues.
So, the funeral was on Wednesday, the visitation on Tuesday. Right on schedule, Tuesday afternoon, I receive a call from my parents, asking me to come to the visitation anyway, despite my insistence that I wouldn't be attending. I refused, and a very unpleasant discussion resulted. They definitely don't like me going against their wishes, not after they spent years training and programming me as a kid to be quiet and obedient. Now they aren't speaking to me again, and this should last for a few more weeks before they come back, refuse to admit any fault, but offer an indirect form of apology.
I can respect their stance. They are being VERY forgiving and putting their best face forward even when dealing with this man. But this is an especially sensitive subject for me after what happened on that lovely Christmas.
This will pass, but all of these wounds are starting to pile up. A lot of things are being said without much forethought, and they're far too set in their ways to see the damage they're doing.