"If I could change it, would I? In a heartbeat." Or, Thanks Mom. Or, I wouldn't.

I guess the problem maybe is that Christmas wasn't that bad this year. I hated the movie (clearly), but every thing else was fine. My chocolate chip pancakes were fucking delicious, I ate a ton at dinner, we played Mario Bros (we haven't beaten it yet, but I got to the castle first, so I feel okay). I made "my" hamburgers...

Let's tangent there. Why not? And let's make it a real tangent. I'll come down here to a new paragraph even, instead of the usual dashes or parentheses in the middle of the sentence. So, during finals week, I decided I was tired of opening my freezer and seeing that same ground meat. For real. I always complain about not having any food, but how long has that been in my freezer? All my meetings were cancelled because of finals, and I didn't have any studying to do...it was perfect. I could make dinner for Jessa since she was busy studying and I'd feel good about not only not spending money and having a good meal, but about cooking it myself and about using that meat that's been in my freezer forever. As we all know however, Jessa really likes to tell me (or anyone) what to do. A lot. I'd never actually taken ground beef before and turned it into patties, but shoot, I could do it. So I pretended that I had a patented method that was how I make hamburgers. She started to tell me what to do at one point (and I really think it has less to do with me, and more to do with her being in charge of what's being done), and I quickly rebutted that "well, that's not how I do it." I owned up to the fact that this was my first time making burgers and that I only said I had a method so that she wouldn't tell me what to do, but only after I was done and I'd gotten amazing compliments on them. So I made them again for Christmas dinner. It was only the second time, but I do make them a certain way with certain ingredients and heavy on that, light on this, etc etc. And the sauteed onions and mushrooms are crucial. So we had that. And we had smoked ribs. Big ones. And the juiciest roasted chicken. And latkes. Because that's how we do Christmas. I was full and it was all good and instead of any sides or salads or desserts, we just had four main dishes and it was delicious.

I was slightly traumatized pre-Christmas by [does it really matter what?] but I dealt with it. I went home even though I was expected out and I took a bath and I had an hour to myself, and then I went out and had fun. Because that's how I do it. The pain never goes away. Ever. But that doesn't mean I can just ignore it. So I feel it and experience it and make time to deal with what's going on and why it hurts and to feel the hurt, and then I let it go. Because every morning I have to wake up and come to work and talk to people and go grocery shopping and see my friends and live my life.

I hate how often this is the point that is missed with the work that I do. Why doesn't that woman leave her abusive husband? Well, because the kids are gonna be home from school in an hour and a half and then one has to get to soccer practice and dinner needs to be ready and there are friends coming over this weekend. Life goes on. Abused kids still have to wake up and go to school five days a week, so they do. Because that's what you have to do. There's not always time to stop and deal with the problem. If a young woman gets raped at a fraternity party on Saturday night, she still has to do her homework on Sunday because there's a quiz on Monday, and she can't miss work, and she'll lose her scholarship if she gets another absence in French class. Life goes on.

So for me, and the things that still plague me, I've found a way to deal. I make time to deal with the pain, because otherwise, if I hide from it for too long, I can't get up and go to work the next day and I can't be present with my friends and I can't make it to any of my commitments because I've become too busy trying to hide. So I carve out time for myself to feel it and remember it's real, and built into that time is time at the end to remember that I get to change it. I don't go hang out with my friends and then come home to be sad. I go home to be sad and really experience the emotion that's jumped up inside of me, and then I go out with my friends. Because actually facing those scary emotions and admitting that the world's not fair and there is injustice and I hurt is fucking terrifying, so it's better to remember at the end of all of that, that there's more to life than just the bad. There's the good too. There's the friend's who are waiting for me to come out and are expecting me and who want to hug me and who love me despite all the bullshit.

The problem with the holiday season is that it's triggering trauma overload. All the stuff that hurts is not only brought up over and over and over and over and over and over, but everyone else seems to go crazy too, so there's even more new crazy to deal with and be hurt by. (I know, I know, preposition ending, but "by which to be hurt" sounds stupid.)

So Christmas day itself--not too bad. Passive aggressive bullshit on the phone, and me getting in trouble for things so far out of my control (the mail, for example), but that's the standard and I was planning on it.

Turns out it was the 26th that really got me. That hurt me for real this year. I was headed out of work last night when I remembered about the "late" packages, so I went back in. The package sent to work had arrived, the much-talked-about card had arrived in my mailbox, and the other lost package was in front of my door. Perfect. Packages I've figured out how to deal with--mostly--and they're usually really great if I just open them with others around. We either laugh at the crazy together so I’m not hurt by it, or, in the great grab-bag of what I might receive from these people, we’ll rejoice in finally getting something worthwhile. So I wanted to wait for Jessa. We've been together for over a year and she hasn't opened a package with me yet. I thought it was time to take that step. So I waited. The card though, I opened. I opened it and I got confused why there was another smaller card inside the larger musical card. Yes. Musical card. They (my biological parents) sent me a musical card that on the outside read "Family and Christmas..."

*****let's pause at this point to point out the important point that anyone who knows me at all knows both of those things/words/events/people/etc I hate*****

and on the inside it said something about how those are two of the most important things, or two things to be thankful for, or two things to rejoice in, or any other such message that has nothing to do with me or the way I feel.

Then there was the inner card. The inner card with the single spaced, typed, four pages from my mom. I've been referring to it as a letter, because what else would I call it, but it's not really that either. At least not the way I think about a letter.

I'm really big on intention these days. I'm really big on making sure what my intention is behind my actions. Why would I say that? Is it to get my point across? Is it because I'm angry and I just want to lash out? Is it to feel understanding with whomever I'm talking to, or is it to get out of the conversation or is it to change the subject or what, and why? What's the intention?

Why am I trying to buy my food from the Root Cellar; and supporting local businesses; and driving my car so much less; and only buying vintage, second-hand, or sweatshop-free/union-made? Because the personal is political and I care about the local farmers, and big corporations aren't good for the country or the people living in it, and I care about the environment, and I'll pay a little extra and have a little less if it means people are getting fair pay for their labor. I care about that stuff and I'm intentional with what I do with my money and how I live my life. At least I try to be.

But what was the intent behind this letter? Was there one? Can it be a letter if it doesn't have any of the intent of a letter? If it doesn't really feel like any form of communication? I mean, any questions that may have been in there weren't really questions because they were rhetorical, hypothetical, and/or passive aggressive.

Well, Webster says a letter is nothing more than a message on paper usually sent in an envelope. Random House agrees, but it's a communication usually sent through the mail. I don't know what the message is (except maybe how fucked up she thinks I am) or what it was supposed to communicate (that I'm a big fucked up disappointment and I should feel bad about it, maybe?), but I did receive a letter.

There was the nit picky stuff, about how I was the one who started that conversation: something with haircuts, I don't remember (see posts pre-Thanksgiving); so I can't be mad about what she said in it: I have bad, ugly hair.

There was the passive-aggressiveness-through-repetition: everyone was there but you; you were the only one not there; everyone asked about you because you weren't there; I wish you could have been there; it's too bad you didn't come; and so much more.

There was downright nonsense: polish your shoes.

There were factual inaccuracies, which were, let's say, hurtful: she thinks I'm 20, which is four years off.

There were insulting instructions: brush your teeth, wear clean clothes, iron, shower.

There were accusations about inappropriateness, but actually, I wore black to the funeral and that's about as appropriate as it gets.

There was further proof that she lives in a reality entirely different than my own, and she pays no attention to me whatsoever, and she never has: She said I picked out the black dress that she actually forced me to buy along with the green one I chose because it was at least better than all the others. She said I liked going to proms, when Junior Prom was what I would call the worst night of my life if it wasn’t followed up with about 6 months of not knowing if I was gonna make it to morning. She said I liked getting dressed up, and wearing make up, and having her put make up on me, when I was actually always ashamed and embarrassed and it hurt less to just let her do it that to have her tell me what I felt was wrong, and that I was wrong, and then do it anyway.

There were so many painful assumptions trying to explain my inherent wrong-ness: maybe a gene that's supposed to be turned off is turned on, or that's supposed to be off is on; or my DNA is missing something.

There were misguided Freudian theories: she tried to blame her nutrition and exercise routine for my turning out to be a big homo.

There were unnecessary and wrongly placed apologies: "I'm sorry you're a lesbian".

There was the most painful sentence, directly following the apology--a half-assed apology for the wrong fucking thing--"If I could change it, would I? In a heartbeat."

Thanks Mom.

I wouldn’t.