My Family Is Just Not That Into Me

When we hear someone lamenting over the condition of their familial ties, it typically links directly to the amount, or lack thereof, of affection. No hugs? How cold. No positive words of affirmation, how unfortunate? Here’s the thing, my family loves me. I have no doubt about that. But what I have recently surrendered to is… love is not enough.

The truth is, I’m the least important person in my family. I don’t know when it happened, but it’s something that I finally can say out loud. Still, every time I say it, even jokingly, there is a dull ache in my soul. A moment where I accept, again, my significance to them and their significance to me do not align. Then a pause where I must catch myself from falling too deeply into my feelings about it. Because it hurts. See, I wanted a family that is safe to drown in and all I managed to do was sink to the bottom.

I could assume I’m out of sight, and therefore, out of mind. Since I am the only one who lives in Los Angeles, while most of everyone else lives within the same ten-mile vicinity, by default, their existences would be more intertwined, right? Still, even those not within those 10 miles are more involved. Or I could say everyone is just busy. With work, kids, and just life, it can be hard to maintain even the closest of relationships. But that would be giving them, and us, the easy way out. It isn’t proximity that we lack, it’s intimacy. It’s interest. In our semi-daily texts and talks, it’s that surface level of engagement that gets me the most. I want to dive in relationships that everyone else is content with floating along. It hurts my pride. It hurts my feelings.

This isn’t about love. My family loves me. I love them. But the days when my world is closing in on me. On days when I want to shout with excitement from the mountain. Those days when I want to be heard and seen. I want, no I need, more than love.

I want reliable communication where we speak with honesty and purpose. I want to share words filled with vulnerability. I want investment, even when it is inconvenient. Prioritize me and put something else important on hold. I want consideration. Consideration of what I am going through, where I am going, and how I got there. I want attention. The kind of attention that solidifies your importance to someone when they recall the things you’ve said. I want them to pay attention to detail, not just important dates. Still, thank you for the birthday wishes. I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I appreciate you. But I would appreciate more.

I want the holidays to be a continuation of the celebration that we do all year. Not the few days we pretend we are more connected than we are apart. Yes, we have memories, but they don’t paint the full picture. I want my family to recall not just what happened, but exactly where I was when they needed me. Didn’t I come through for you? Don’t I come through for you? Dammit I’m looking for reciprocation. Why lie? I want them to return my energy. If I am giving them the exact things that I seek, is it wrong to want them returned?

Yes, I have love. I know to some I may sound ungrateful, but I want more. I need more.

I want my community to include my family. My every day to be filled with moments I can’t miss, not calls of routine. I want to believe that my absence makes a difference. But what I get are Facebook check-ins of everyone smiling without me, to an event I didn’t even know about. I get FOMO and sadness. I get the feeling of difference. I get told, “you know you’re different.” I get treated, differently.

I’m tired of seeking allies in the streets. Comfort in other orphaned and ostracized people desperate for something more. I want to feel at home, at home.

But maybe, I want too much.