family ties.
I started reading A Wolf at the Table by Augusten Burroughs today, and it falls into the category of horrifying guilt-inducer. As long as I could remember, I have felt guilty at the fact that my family was, in some sense of the word at least, stable. We've run into issues, granted. And my grandparents have strange and interesting upbringings; these childhoods have cultivated not bourbon-guzzling abuse fiends, but strange individuals and interesting individuals.
They represent both sides of the coin: one has made himself a victim, and the other has for sake of convenience (but this is another discussion for another time.) The other two rose above things. Despite being dirt poor, my grandfather had a home full of love and remains lovingly close to the rest of his big, loud, Irish family. His wife, my maternal grandfather, sold pretzels on her street to make money to take home and would leave around the time the moon became full, because according to her, he suffered tremendous mental instability at this time, and got violent and drank a lot.
Despite these factors, they've raised four really awesome kids, one of which is my mother, the greatest person I have and probably will ever know. They love us immensely and my parents have followed in that fashion. Even my more victimized grandparents, who gave my dad a "take it or leave it" childhood, are still more "normal" than most.
So when I read about people with alcoholic fathers and pillpopping mothers and the years of therapy they've used in effort to compensate for love they did not receive, I feel guilty. Like I've had it too easy. Like I should have taken a few years of abuse from them, so their load would be lighter, and mine would still be extremely manageable.
A vicious literary cycle.
They represent both sides of the coin: one has made himself a victim, and the other has for sake of convenience (but this is another discussion for another time.) The other two rose above things. Despite being dirt poor, my grandfather had a home full of love and remains lovingly close to the rest of his big, loud, Irish family. His wife, my maternal grandfather, sold pretzels on her street to make money to take home and would leave around the time the moon became full, because according to her, he suffered tremendous mental instability at this time, and got violent and drank a lot.
Despite these factors, they've raised four really awesome kids, one of which is my mother, the greatest person I have and probably will ever know. They love us immensely and my parents have followed in that fashion. Even my more victimized grandparents, who gave my dad a "take it or leave it" childhood, are still more "normal" than most.
So when I read about people with alcoholic fathers and pillpopping mothers and the years of therapy they've used in effort to compensate for love they did not receive, I feel guilty. Like I've had it too easy. Like I should have taken a few years of abuse from them, so their load would be lighter, and mine would still be extremely manageable.
A vicious literary cycle.