Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Relative Strangers

There are only a handful of people in my family I have more than DNA in common with. I'm pretty sure they feel that way about me, too. I don't know. We don't talk much. Preemptively, it's not entirely my fault.

There's this thing. I say: "We don't talk much." Someone else says: "Well, you can always initiate the communication!"

As if it were that simple. As if it wasn't screaming into the void. As if it wouldn't result in further estrangement. I'm actually okay with the state of things. It really fucking hurt for a while. I got over it. Like I said, it's just DNA.

Here's the thing...

I write.

I write about me, sometimes. By extension, that includes writing about them. Sometimes it's some unpleasant shit. Would that I had an idyllic childhood in a supportive and nurturing environment. But I didn't.

I've offered to let them read the things I write, my family. One sister, I think she read a short story once. But, you know, I gave 'em the opportunity. They don't take it. That's not my fault.

But I don't think it's going to matter. Eventually they will find me, here on the internet. Eventually someone is going to read something I wrote. And they are going to be fucking pissed.

Even though I told them.

I wish they'd hurry up and get it out of the way.