I seem to be having nightmares more frequently of
late. Last night I wasn’t hungry, but I
wanted to eat. I didn’t know what I wanted. I knew what I didn’t want – I didn’t want
protein, carbs, fat, or sweet treats. I
didn’t want food. But I wanted to eat. I did not eat. Instead, I watched an episode of Babylon 5
with David and went to bed after a glass of milk. This was a compromise on my part – I was no
longer full from dinner and it tasted delicious.
And last night I dreamt again about my sister. This time it was the tennis ball.
I must have been 12 or 13. It was after she moved home from foster care
and before my parents reunited. And some
stupid fight broke out over a tennis ball.
A tennis ball that didn’t have an owner and with which I was playing.
And of course, this was utterly unacceptable to
her. And she demanded that I give it to
her and to the neighbor who was her best friend at the time. And I refused. I knew she would try to take it anyway. She always demanded anything she wanted and
if she wasn’t given it, she simply took it.
Always.
So it was with the tennis ball. She demanded it. I didn’t want to relent this time. I wanted to stake my claim. It didn’t belong to anyone. I had been playing with it first. I wasn’t done with it. I had been enjoying myself. I wanted to continue to play.
When I wouldn’t give it to her, she hit me. And she kept hitting me. She hit me until I was lying on the floor in
the fetal position, curled around that tennis ball, unwilling to let her take
yet one more thing from me.
And so she left.
She and her friend left the house.
And just for good measure, she kicked me in the eye on her way out.
And she kicked me so hard that the blood vessels in my
eye ruptured. And the white of my eye
was stained with ruby spots of blood.
And my mother was at work until 11:00 that night. So, when she returned home the next morning
and I told her what had happened and had her look at my eye, of course it was
my fault. I should have just given her the damn tennis ball. And besides, what was I talking about? My mother couldn’t see anything wrong with my
eye.
But I went into the bathroom and looked again. And there they were – those red dots of
blood. And sure enough the neighbors
asked what happened to my eye. And
people at church on Sunday asked what had happened to my eye. And no matter how many times I made my mother
look at my eye, she couldn’t see it. There
was nothing wrong. Why hadn’t I just
given my sister the tennis ball in the first place?
My sister continues to do the same thing today –
always striving to take from others what she wants, believing that she can’t truly
have it for herself if she does not have it all. If I am happy in my relationship, she finds
some way to disparage it and to claim that her own happiness in her
relationship is greater. If I take pride
in my academic accomplishments, she insists that they amount to nothing of
value in this world and that she has accomplished what truly matters in life –
reproduction. If I take pride in my
vocation, this sacred and holy work that I love, she declares that my faith
tradition is invalid and she alone has divine knowledge that is worthy of being
held. If I hold to my faith and tell her
with all genuineness that I am happy she has found a faith tradition that is
meaningful to her, she switches faith traditions, enters into my own, and
declares how much more she is getting from this community than I ever did.
And I’m tired.
I am not in competition with her and I’m tired of being set up for a
competition that I have no interest in.
And I’m tired of the continual reworking of the story when I tell her I
won’t compete and I’m happy that she’s happy and that nothing in my life is a
poor reflection of her, just as nothing going on in her life changes my own
experiences. It still never stops. She still demands all the tennis balls, never
mind that she has no tennis racket and never learned to play the game.
I woke up this morning with an idea in my mind that
was, all at once and in equal measure, both wonderful and terrifying.
It was this: I
never have to see my family again.
I never have
to see my family again.
I never have
to see my family again.
This, of course, breaks the first rule of my family –
loyalty to your family is everything. It
also means stepping outside the bounds of the second rule of my family while
appearing to keep in holding with it – inside the family, every man, woman,
child for themselves only.
I have my own life in a place far away. I have a new family that I am building with
D – one built on love and respect and the belief that there is enough for
everybody and nobody needs to hoard it all or to deprive everyone else. I never have to see my family of origin ever
again. Though I would, in fact, happily
spend time with my mother or either of my brothers circumstances permitting, of course.
There is something liberating in this truth and yet
the power to make such a bold decision overwhelms and terrifies me.
It used to be that when I meditated, I focused on the
movement of my breath. “In. Out.
In. Out.” Lately I have been trying something new. Two thoughts that carry on, distinct and
separate, but wholly entwined and dependent on one another. “Love.
Forgiveness. Love. Forgiveness.
I have been focusing on these ideas as I try to
enhance my capacity to love others and to extend forgiveness to those who have
hurt me. Today, I breathed in love and I
breathed out forgiveness. My mind was
drawn to the possibility (the glorious possibility) that I can choose to never
see my father or my sister again. I
brought my focus back to my breath.
Love.
Forgiveness.
And I began to cry.
Choosing not to allow abusive and bullying people into my life is an act
of love for myself. When those bullying
and abusive people are family, I would have to forgive myself for breaking the
family rules. Love. Forgiveness.
In. Out. Love.
Forgiveness.
And the possibility that just maybe there are tennis
balls enough to go around.
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