Dysfunctional Families
For my bookclub, I am currently reading a book called "Running with Scissors" by Augusten Burroughs. It is marketed as a hilarious comedy about the writer's dysfunctional childhood. My opinion is much simpler:
Everyone who enjoys this book enjoys it for the same reason the movie Jackass made millions . . . and I am proud NOT to be part of that crowd.
Over the years, many people have asked me when I am going to write about my experiences with my dysfunctional families (yes, I am purposely using the plural). I always laugh and tell folks the truth . . . I'll write about them when it isn't quite so raw . . . when laughing at their craziness isn't accompanied by an inaudible keening whine in my head. If they weren't real, my family would be one of the greatest stand-up comedy routines ever.
Not only did one of my uncles care for both my uncle with schizophrenia and my grandmother with Alzheimers . . . HE TOOK THEM ON ROAD TRIPS from Missouri to Colorado. For every family screaming at their children to sit down and shut up - I defy you to contemplate being in the same car with a schizophrenic and an Alzhemier's patient for hours on end. And then the more frightening thought . . . that he did so WILLINGLY.
Rules? Restrictions? The following is a quote from either my mom or my stepfather: "We don't drink juice because we're thirsty. We drink juice for the flavor. Therfore, if you want a glass of juice, you should first go drink a glass of water, and then you can have a glass of juice." (My parents would deny ever having said this - but I can't figure how in the heck I would have made that one up.)
Even my grandparents had a dysfunctional relationship - a fact which seemes to come to the surface most frequently at funerals. Consider the circumstances surrounding my grandfather's funeral: 1) his third (and final) wife refused to acknowledge that my grandfather had any children (i.e., my mother, my two aunts, and my uncle) - which was not all that surprising because; 2) she had, in fact, failed to post news that my grandfather had died in the paper, call any family friends, or really, to make any effort to tell anyone at all that he had passed away - excepting, of course, all of her fundraising and church contacts, who used my grandfather's funeral as a chance to drink a cup of punch and make contacts for business deals; 3) my grandfather's second wife apparently received a call informing her that she would be murdered if she dared to attend the funeral; and 4) nothing turns people ugly like missing money at a funeral - especially to the tune of $2 million dollars. (I could launch into a diatribe about inheritences, but it would take me off topic.) And, oh, yes - as a group of robed gentleman held a second funeral service over his coffin, I discovered that my grandfather was not only a life-long member of the Masonic brotherhood, he had apparently achived the rank of Master Mason by age 25.
I must say, I'm tired of learning more about my family members in Death than they cared to share with me in Life. Though . . . frankly . . . I found far more comfort and thought the Masonic service was far more appropriate to how he had lived his life than the standard "ashes to ashes" burial his third-wife conducted.
People always wanted to know why I had no interest in taking drugs in highschool. I always figured my life was strange enough as it was.
Maybe I'll begin to post some of the funnier family stories - like the time my Uncle R. and my father nearly blew themselves to smithereens with dynamite. Or how my great-grandfather was a self-taught chemist who kept vats of mercury in the basement (proving once and for all that not all of my family's problems can be traced to inbreeding . . . ). Or my Grandmother's funeral. Or rather, the funeral for "my grandfather's second wife who I am not biologically related to but who was married to my grandfather when I was young and so really is the only grandmother I knew." Since my mother, my stepfather, and myself were the only family who bothered to show up, we rated front pew at her funeral, and I had plenty of opportunities to explain exactly how we weren't related at all.
I really could go on and on. But the shrill keening is starting in my head, like a klaxon that I'm coming to close to opening old wounds, so I think I'll pause for now. Maybe I'll feature a bunch of miniature posts at a later date - each labeled "Dysfunctional Family Spot #___." I may not be exactly enjoying Running with Scissors, but it has set me to thinking about my own life - and especially with the imminent approach of New Year's, it is a time to reflect, repent, and reinvent.
You don't get to choose your family . . . but you can choose whether or not you are on speaking terms with any of them at any given time . . .
Happy New Year!
Everyone who enjoys this book enjoys it for the same reason the movie Jackass made millions . . . and I am proud NOT to be part of that crowd.
Over the years, many people have asked me when I am going to write about my experiences with my dysfunctional families (yes, I am purposely using the plural). I always laugh and tell folks the truth . . . I'll write about them when it isn't quite so raw . . . when laughing at their craziness isn't accompanied by an inaudible keening whine in my head. If they weren't real, my family would be one of the greatest stand-up comedy routines ever.
Not only did one of my uncles care for both my uncle with schizophrenia and my grandmother with Alzheimers . . . HE TOOK THEM ON ROAD TRIPS from Missouri to Colorado. For every family screaming at their children to sit down and shut up - I defy you to contemplate being in the same car with a schizophrenic and an Alzhemier's patient for hours on end. And then the more frightening thought . . . that he did so WILLINGLY.
Rules? Restrictions? The following is a quote from either my mom or my stepfather: "We don't drink juice because we're thirsty. We drink juice for the flavor. Therfore, if you want a glass of juice, you should first go drink a glass of water, and then you can have a glass of juice." (My parents would deny ever having said this - but I can't figure how in the heck I would have made that one up.)
Even my grandparents had a dysfunctional relationship - a fact which seemes to come to the surface most frequently at funerals. Consider the circumstances surrounding my grandfather's funeral: 1) his third (and final) wife refused to acknowledge that my grandfather had any children (i.e., my mother, my two aunts, and my uncle) - which was not all that surprising because; 2) she had, in fact, failed to post news that my grandfather had died in the paper, call any family friends, or really, to make any effort to tell anyone at all that he had passed away - excepting, of course, all of her fundraising and church contacts, who used my grandfather's funeral as a chance to drink a cup of punch and make contacts for business deals; 3) my grandfather's second wife apparently received a call informing her that she would be murdered if she dared to attend the funeral; and 4) nothing turns people ugly like missing money at a funeral - especially to the tune of $2 million dollars. (I could launch into a diatribe about inheritences, but it would take me off topic.) And, oh, yes - as a group of robed gentleman held a second funeral service over his coffin, I discovered that my grandfather was not only a life-long member of the Masonic brotherhood, he had apparently achived the rank of Master Mason by age 25.
I must say, I'm tired of learning more about my family members in Death than they cared to share with me in Life. Though . . . frankly . . . I found far more comfort and thought the Masonic service was far more appropriate to how he had lived his life than the standard "ashes to ashes" burial his third-wife conducted.
People always wanted to know why I had no interest in taking drugs in highschool. I always figured my life was strange enough as it was.
Maybe I'll begin to post some of the funnier family stories - like the time my Uncle R. and my father nearly blew themselves to smithereens with dynamite. Or how my great-grandfather was a self-taught chemist who kept vats of mercury in the basement (proving once and for all that not all of my family's problems can be traced to inbreeding . . . ). Or my Grandmother's funeral. Or rather, the funeral for "my grandfather's second wife who I am not biologically related to but who was married to my grandfather when I was young and so really is the only grandmother I knew." Since my mother, my stepfather, and myself were the only family who bothered to show up, we rated front pew at her funeral, and I had plenty of opportunities to explain exactly how we weren't related at all.
I really could go on and on. But the shrill keening is starting in my head, like a klaxon that I'm coming to close to opening old wounds, so I think I'll pause for now. Maybe I'll feature a bunch of miniature posts at a later date - each labeled "Dysfunctional Family Spot #___." I may not be exactly enjoying Running with Scissors, but it has set me to thinking about my own life - and especially with the imminent approach of New Year's, it is a time to reflect, repent, and reinvent.
You don't get to choose your family . . . but you can choose whether or not you are on speaking terms with any of them at any given time . . .
Happy New Year!
posted by Andrea Peach | 9:21 PM
1 Comments:
Despite the high pitched whining in your head signaling the opening of wounds, i hope it becomes somewhat theraputic for you to tell these stories. And thanks for making me laugh.
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