Silly Straw

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The final straw was a silly straw, twisting and brightly colored, and light as could be. Still, it was the final one.

For my part, it had been a long time coming. I’d spent over a year in therapy, and in almost every session my therapist asked me why I still spoke to my parents. He asked again and again what I was getting out of it, what I had to gain by continuing to engage with them every week. I was never good at answering that question, which was largely a failure of imagination on my part. I couldn’t answer the question because I couldn’t imagine the inverse. I couldn’t imagine a familial relationship in which I was supported, challenged, and loved. Family, to me, was largely something to be endured. I knew it was never going to get better. I also couldn’t imagine letting go.

Still, there was an epiphany itching at the back of my mind. My entire life, I’d thought that if I could try hard enough, if I could be good enough, if I could say the right thing or give the right gift, I might be able to win them over. I thought if I stumbled on a way to be their version of a perfect child, I would finally earn their affection.

My therapist said that as far as he could see, I’d done everything possible to fix the relationship. He wasn’t wrong. I’d tried communicating both my mental health issues and my issues with our relationship and been met with outright hostility. I’d tried being open about my sexuality and been met with silence. When I expressed a need, that need was usually met, but also followed with a punitive silence. They were seemingly incapable of saying thank you for a gift, no matter how thoughtful it was or how difficult to procure. There was no good news I could give them that was worth talking about.

Still, I didn’t feel ready to give up. It felt like I had to keep trying, had to keep pushing. Even in the absence of evidence to support that feeling, I was convinced that one day I would hit upon the right formula and find on the other end a loving and joyful family. It had never occurred to me how much effort all that trying and searching entailed. I’d never paid much attention to how crushing it was every time they failed to simply say “thank you” or “I’m proud of you” or even “happy birthday”. I’d never sat with what that conversation felt like every week, had never surveyed that emotional landscape, even as it continued to be impersonal, distant, and unfulfilling.

The more I sat with that one question, the more it hit home. I had done everything I could. I’d been doing it for years. My starvation bouts often centered on the rare times I saw them. I constantly updated them on my successes. I bought them the most thoughtful gifts I could think of. I tried to invite them into my life. They simply refused to let me.

Still, I didn’t cut the cord immediately. That might have been the simplest course of action, but somehow, it felt wrong to cut contact with people who had done nothing terribly wrong, at least not recently. Instead, I continued to reach out to them every week. I continued to give them opportunities that they didn’t take.

On my birthday, I had to call them. It took several tries to get them on the line. When they finally answered the phone, they both failed to wish me happy birthday, though they did reference it. It was my 30th, and I’d just gotten a new job I was excited about. I’d started that day, as a matter of fact. I’d been so excited to tell them all about my new position, how enthusiastic my new firm was about my skills, how nice everyone had been. Instead, we talked about their band rehearsals.

Over the next two weeks, my father in particular was much more communicative than usual. He texted me nearly every day. At one point, he told me he had no doubt that I’d do well at my new office. It should have felt like a victory. Instead, I felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And then it did.

During those intervening three weeks, neither of my parents mentioned Thanksgiving. While there were certainly some details I knew in advance, like which family they’d be visiting, without talking it through I had no idea when they planned to arrive or how long they’d be staying. I didn’t have time I could take off, having only started a new job two weeks before, so I needed them to communicate with me to make some kind of plan.

That didn’t happen. Despite the fact that my father was in near constant contact, he didn’t mention Thanksgiving. My mother also didn’t bring it up during our weekly phone calls. I found that odd, but I took it in stride.

To be honest, it was an impasse I found very comfortable. It meant that I could go to Friendsgiving with the community of queer people I’d found myself in without having to make an excuse. I did have an excuse ready that year, precisely because I had a new job and only one day off for Thanksgiving, but both of my parents not asking the question meant that I didn’t have to have that conversation at all. I was okay with that. I was okay with simply not being invited.

But that’s not what happened.

Instead, the night before Thanksgiving my father texted me. He told me that he was already at Granny and Papa’s house, and that they were going to pick up traditional Thanksgiving dinner from a restaurant, since Granny’s dementia has made her a risk in the kitchen. He did not invite me. He told me what he was doing and then said, “We can meet up at a Mexican joint in Frankfort on Friday if you want.”

I didn’t respond. Not to any of the messages he sent the night before Thanksgiving. Not ever again.

It was a silly straw, brightly colored and twisting. It was light as a feather. It was still the last one.

My problem with those messages, the problem that existed with those three texts that did not exist with just not mentioning Thanksgiving at all, was that he expected me to take the fall for not being there. Despite having not invited me, despite the fact that the norm was for me to drive to their house and then ride down to Tennessee with them, despite the fact that I didn’t know what the plan was until it was too late for me to easily be there, despite the fact that he had made himself more present than ever beforehand via text and never so much as mentioned it, I was the one who was supposed to take responsibility for us not having Thanksgiving as a family.

I refused. I knew the truth regardless of whether he was willing to say it. He simply didn’t want me there. He didn’t want to try and explain away his queer child to his parents. He didn’t want the risk of me rolling up my sleeves and my scars being on full display. He didn’t want my constant talk of books and academia in a family that would never appreciate them.

He didn’t want me there. He also didn’t want to own up to feeling that way. So instead, he tried to make me do it.

I refused.

In the coming days, my parents tried several times to get me to respond. They first tried concern trolling, asking repeatedly if I was okay. They had no reason to believe that I wasn’t. We had gone far longer without talking in the past, without incident. They simply thought I would feel guilty enough about those messages to elicit and answer.

I didn’t.

Next, my father tried gaslighting me via a return to normal. In particular, he sent me a text telling me that he really liked Taco Bell burritos. This brand of gaslighting is a classic in my family. It’s insidious because it looks innocent. It’s an attempt to set aside every righteous and hard-earned emotion I had about their behavior and return to the status quo. In the past, it had worked.

This time it didn’t.

After that, my father went hateful. He said that he didn’t know what he’d done to earn his sudden silent treatment, but when I was ready to have an adult conversation, I could reach out.

I didn’t.

My mother then sent me a text telling me how badly my granny was doing and how far she had deteriorated into her dementia. She told me I should call Papa, giving me a number that wasn’t his. This made little sense. I haven’t spoken to him in better than five years. There was nothing I could say to him that would be of any comfort or any use. She knew that. She thought that if she made me feel guilty enough, I might respond.

I didn’t.

To date, I have no idea if my parents have put together that they’ll never hear from me again. For a few months, I held out hope that knowing that I wasn’t responding, knowing that my absence from their lives was intentional, might elicit some kind of introspection. Then my father sent me another text about nothing. This one was a casting call for an indie movie being shot in a town an hour away from where I live.

At that point I blocked his number. Not because that new text was so offensive or such an invasion, but because it told me beyond a shadow of a doubt that they would never think through why I might not want to interact with them. Despite years of trying to state my needs, pleading for them to be met, he could not work out on his own that he had never met them.

The truth is, my parents abandoned me from the moment I was born. They refused to meet my physical and emotional needs while still presenting themselves as great parents to a great kid. They weren’t parents. The idea that I might somehow lure them into choosing to be parents by being a perfect child, or alternately, with my silence, finally shook loose a few months after I cut contact.

As I write this, I have still not reached out to my parents. Ultimately, I know that they’re incapable of being the people I need. They are incapable of providing comfort or support. They always have been. Trying to find that reconnection now would only magnify the grief I have been working through for the past fifteen months.

I need a parent right now, but I’ve been orphaned. Instead, I’ve had to let the parent in my own self lead the charge. It hurts, but I know that I’m in much better hands.

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