Oddly odd and yet familiar

9 Sep

Today I had lunch with my biological Grandfather and his second wife.

How odd. How odd to make conversation with someone who seems to feel oddly beholden to you. How odd to make conversation with someone who seems so familiar, so obviously part of you, and yet not. So distant, so many years past, roads not taken, decisions I cannot change.

We made small talk about relatives I haven’t seen in ten years, people who barely touched me, families I stood on the peripheral of. Things I could not have. Mothers, fathers, siblings living as units, playing out their daily lives. Living.

I feel comfortable with this man. I feel as a granddaughter should. Yet I also feel aloof and alone. I am not part of him, not really. The love for blueberries he has may have been passed to Rosalyn, or she might just like them. I have no birth story with this man, no history. No one waiting outside the delivery room, excited at my arrival. I have the knowledge that I was unwanted, and cast aside.

Rationally I know that I was then given to a family who wanted WANTED a child, a girl to raise as their own, and that means so much more than accidental insemination to me. But that doesn’t stop that hidden, almost primal ache of rejection, as if on some level I remember my mother’s arms not being there, if I remember being set on my own. I wonder if this doesn’t set the stage for my perceived independence and strength.

It’s not real you know-this facade of strength and honor. It’s a crumbling wall, plaster gone to shit, bricks burning. I have never been that strong girl. Recently, someone told me that after my mother died, they thought I was a success! I was so independent and seemed so strong.

How fucking wrong they were. How horribly, terribly wrong. Just when I felt that my every fibre was crying out for help, everyone thought I was ok. I wasn’t. I’m not. Maybe I never was. Maybe having the family you’re born into reject you so early has an imprint on you that you just cannot erase, contributing to feeling isolated and alone, even when sitting at a table with the man who would have loved you to bits had you stayed in his family.

Maybe’s, could have beens and wondering. They make nice sides to a Clubhouse sandwich.

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