Yesterday was my grandmother’s 87th birthday party. I wasn’t invited. This is typical of my family.
My father can find time to take a week off work and fly across the country to visit my sister, but can’t manage to find an hour to have dinner with me. My father can give my brother money for a downpayment on a house and help him re-roof it, but he won’t let me borrow his truck on a weekend to move furniture myself.
My mother is more complex, but easier to explain: she’s schizophrenic and despises me. She believes that, if I weren’t born, she would have had a successful life and blames me for her failings. She fails to recall that when she married my father in the 1970’s, she had $30K in debt that she had failed to disclose and immediately quit working once she was married. Her ambitions are her problem, not my existence.
Now my brother keeps the birth of his son a secret and my sister sends photos of her son to everyone in the extended family but me. My father doesn’t invite me to family events, like my grandmother’s birthday. My mother only speaks to me when she wants to say something hateful.
For the most part, I try to avoid them all. Especially since my brother tried to sell me for sex at a bar about a year and a half ago. But sometimes, a wave of deep sadness washes over me. I don’t really have a family.