Our world is going to hell in a hand basket. As I write these words I wonder where they come from: hell in a hand basket. Maybe it’s because as we go down this slippery slope of not caring about each other we wrap it up in pretty paper and pretty words and add pretty flowers that smell oh so sweet! and it hides the rotten smell of what is inside.
It’s everywhere. People you think should love you, and they say they do, but delight in negative gossip because it makes them feel better about themselves because their life never amounted to a hill of beans. Maybe this is why so many older people are so bitter because they think they reached the point they are too old to do begin anything new.
I’ve talked to quite a few people and asked them about their families – trying to find a family that isn’t dysfunctional. But I found there aren’t any. Whenever you get beyond a small family, where there are sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, etc., the nitpicking, and jealousy comes out. Family thinks they have the right to judge you and the right to gossip so much more than your friends do. Maybe we are more careful with our friends because they can leave us in a heartbeat, but we expect our family to try to understand us and love us because we are tied by blood. We think they are “supposed” to love us and then we’re hurt because they don’t. So we wait, thinking someday they’ll see the light, but they never do. Our bad, thinking that will happen.
I’m not very good at superficial relationships where the conversation never gets any deeper than the weather. In a large gathering of people the main topic of conversation revolves around each others jobs while we politely listen to each other is rapt attention. We don’t know each other. We rarely talk to each other holidays and getting together to actually get to know each other doesn’t happen because there is no time. But we say, “Of course, I’ll call you and we’ll get together real soon,” but it never ever happens.
And I’m expected to keep trying. They’re family!
The man Jamie I write about at My Name is Jamie. My Life in Prison also has a large family. He’s been locked up since he was 16. He’s 33 now. His own mother never answers his letters because it hurts HER too much because he’s in there. The rest of his family can’t even put a stamp on a birthday card. His hurt has been devastating. Then it made him numb. But I’d bet they’d all say they love him. Love him why? How do they show it?
Is there anyone out there that has a large family where everyone loves each other? How do they show it because I’m confused. I’d sure like to meet one, where there isn’t someone who gets talked about and lied about, behind their back and forth from one cell phone to another. Do you have family members who insist they are nice people, but they just can’t be nice to you,’right now’. Don’t pressure them and maybe they’ll be nice to you later, in a few years, if they think about it. Do you have family members who treat you with indifference and then say it’s your fault, because you had the audacity to actually expect them to do something they said they would do, but just can’t get around to it, and you had the nerve to ask them why? Do you have family that have lost the ability to say, “Thank you,” when you have done something special for them, a gift from your heart to theirs and you wait to perhaps hear what they thought about it, and they don’t even acknowledge you gave it to them? I’ll give it to you instead
Anyone who has read this blog knows I record improvised piano music. Except for my mother, no one has ever taken the time to listen to it. I’m 61 years old. No other family member has ever heard me play in my entire adult life. I’m assuming my sisters heard me practice as a kid. If you go to the Sound Cloud and scroll down a few pieces you’ll see “Graduation Day”. That was my gift. Something else . . . If you think I’m wrong or if you think I’m overreacting, let me know, because I am at a loss. This has made me very unhappy and out of a sense of self preservation all I can of is to just cut them out of my life like a hanging toe nail I keep banging on the end of my bed.