I’m laying in my bed with the lights out claiming to be sick. In my defense, I don’t feel that well. In my parent’s defense I have definitely felt worse.
Oh Boxing Day. The day when (if I’m not working) I get to hang out with all of my dad’s relatives. I know I should be thankful to have a house full of aunts, uncles and cousins, but I’m not. I honestly think the prospect of spending Boxing Day with them is what makes me ill every year.
I’ve been bullied by two groups of people in my life – the friends who ditched me in grade five and my cousins.
It hurts more when it’s family.
What bothers me the most is that they don’t get it. Neither does my dad. I know it hurts him that I am down here ignoring them, but they ignored me for years so it’s only fitting. My uncle Steve and Aunt Ruth used to live in a mansion along the shores of the St. Lawrence river. It wasn’t quite movie star size, but it was bigger and more luxurious than anything I will own. Marble floors and a fireplace that extended two levels, with breathtaking views of the water. I can remember hiding in the formal living room while my cousins snuck off to Amy’s bedroom and locked me out while they phoned boys. The only time they let me in was if they wanted me to call someone or to make fun of me.
One time they brought my little brother into the basement, turned off the lights and chased him around until my mom found him screaming and in hysterics. It took him five years to get over his fear of the dark.
Now some of them are married with kids of their own and I know that they wonder why I never see them. Why I never write or acknowledge that we are related. But it’s a two way street and I don’t see them reaching out to me.
Whenever I’m around them I feel insignificant and like I am two feet tall. It’s not a feeling I relish, nor is it one that I wish to feel in my own home. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to put it all behind me … that day is not today.
