Coming Home

It is midnight on Tuesday night and I am sitting in my childhood home, with all the lights off, except on our huge Christmas tree. It is probably 12 feet tall--nearly touching the beams, which are covered with cedar boughs. There’s no cornucopia of holly on the chandeliers this year, nor are the angels descending from each of the cross beams because my parents were really stressed, and I didn’t get home till late in the year, but it is a lovely Christmas scene.

Of course, there’s no internet, because my mom has already moved to their new home and taken non-essentials, like the modem and router with her. (I define non-essential differently than my dad.)

So, this is the last time I will sit here. This is the last time I will refer to “home” as some place other than my house.

I don’t know why I remain so sentimentally attached to Christmas.  Mostly, I hate it.  But the new house only has 8’ high, flat ceilings, instead of the 14’ high vaulted ceiling I grew up with.  (It really isn’t as grand as it sounds--this house is small and has no attic, but it is nice lines and beautiful light.)  The thought of never again having a big Christmas tree makes me so sad; but I’m not planning on spending Christmas with my family next year, and maybe not for a bit.  I suppose once the niece or nephew is old enough to enjoy Christmas, it will be a different deal; Christmas is for children.  It will be nice to have someone I can give presents to who won’t be pissy about materialism and capitalism and what not.  I love giving presents.  I don’t care if they are handmade, or vouchers for services or tickets to an event; I love giving presents.  I don’t shop much; god knows I don’t need more things.  But when people I care about take the time to think about my life and give me something that would make it richer, I am so grateful. Not just when I receive it; most whenever I use it.  My sister gave me her old iPod docking station, and I don’t care that it is used.  Every time I use it, I think of how thoughtful it is.  I love giving gifts and I love getting thoughtful gifts and the fact that my family (sans mi maman) is too fucking enlightened to deign to accept some material object on a commercialized holiday, hurts me a great deal.

Today was my last therapy session with my dad for this trip (I have a feeling we won’t be done with therapy forever, however).  I wanted to do a do-ever with my dad, and so we met at our house, instead of the therapists office.

This weekend, my dad and I were doing much better, but he came today in a different place, a more stubborn place and talk of “genuine” stuff was back. And I became more and more hysterical. I felt so foolish for thinking I could trust my dad with my vulnerability enough to have him do a do-over. 

For a while, I just knew it was stupid to trust him with how badly it hurt me, or try. And as our time went by, I got more and more hysterical.

When I was in the 7th grade, while I was walking up the stairs, my dad said “No man will ever love you if you don’t lose weight.” And that was pretty devastating to me. So I wanted him, in that place, with me on a stair below him, looking up at him, to say something lovely, to replace that image in my mind.

But even telling him how painful that was for me was incredibly scary. I learned to not be ‘fun to tease’ but the cost was that I don’t share vulnerability with my dad. Vulnerabilities make you, well, vulnerable. It has not felt safe for decades, even if it was.

Well, with time ticking away, I was getting more and more hysterical, and finally the therapist pushed us to go ahead and do the do-over. Dad didn’t say quite what I wanted him to. He apologized for the first time, instead of telling me I was beautiful and lovable, but there were tears in his eyes, and I could tell he meant it. I told him “Now, tell me I’m lovable and beautiful” and he said “I don’t want to have to do that when I’m prompted. I want you to know it and say it spontaneously.” (Of course, the funny thing is, I was waiting all week for him to initiate a do-over, and just tell me, when I was coming up the stairs, that I was beautiful, but he didn’t. I had to ask for what I wanted, which made it mean less, but it was still better than nothing.) And I said “But I need an image to replace the one in my head” and so he said “You are beautiful and lovable. As proven by how much I love you.” And then we hugged, me still standing on the steps, with my arms under his arms, like I was a little kid.

I think it make a difference. I don’t know, and won’t for months. I’m working really hard on moving from the blog to life, from my intellectual knowing, to my visceral feeling. But I seem to be aware of things long before I can actually feel differently about them, and oftentimes I don’t make that shift at all. But doing that with my dad, having a redo of one of my strongest childhood memories, makes it easier to say goodbye to this house. I’m so exhausted though. And I’ve been counting the hours until I can go home.  Until I can curl up with my cats and enjoy my bed and maybe make out with Nate.  I am going home.  Which now has only one meaning.