If You Don't Have Anything Nice To Say

With Thanksgiving unpleasantly near, the pressure in my brain has been going way up. I won't be seeing any family that doesn't already live close by, but I'm still feeling the dread of being in close quarters with certain people for the entire day. In fact, I recently tweeted some "jokes" about my dad and his mom, and I'm not really sure how I feel about them (I mean both the jokes and the people).

On the one hand, I feel like I shouldn't drag unpleasant things out in front of an audience mostly composed of strangers. I'll get an encouraging star here, or an unfollow there, but, regardless, it seems like something someone with poor moral character would do. Also, none of my traumas are especially traumatic. There are probably people following me on twitter who have much worse stories.

On the other hand, when someone mistreats you and then shames you into keeping it to yourself, it can be hard to realize that the things they've said and done are still affecting you. Also, it's a kind of emotional blackmail to be cruel to someone and then to convince that person that telling others about it is the meaner action. As if the initial act were accidental, or even right, while bringing up said act is an intentional evil.

But even as I'm still sorting through the garbage heaped on me by my dad and his mom, I'm going to have to be civil to them three short days from now. I'm going to try something that I've used to deal with life in general, but never specifically, for particular people: gratitude.

It's easy to remember the controlling behavior, the cruel comments, the (mild?) physical abuse. But I think the only thing that's going to save my sanity on Thursday is remembering the good things (at least the ones that weren't completely tainted by an undercurrent of manipulation).

Let's start with my grandma:

1. My sister and I used to go to our grandmother and grandfather's house on Friday nights. We'd eat broccoli and... I don't remember what. Something cooked in the microwave. It was nearly inedible. But then they usually took us out to Baskin-Robbins in my grandfather's little sports car. Then we'd go back to their house and lie on the couch, and grandma would cover us with a quilt, and we'd doze in front of the TV until our parents came to get us. (Also, she gave me that quilt recently when she redecorated.)

2. Before I grew up and began having my own beliefs and opinions, my grandma used to brag about me to her friends. Then one day I'd be at some charity function in an ugly dress and itchy tights, and a bunch of old ladies would gather around me and say, "Is this the girl who...?" and pinch my cheeks.

3. My parents must have been out of town or something one time because my sister and I were staying over. (I think this was shortly after my grandfather died.) My grandma took us to Michael's and bought us blank t-shirts and t-shirt decals. She ironed on the black-and-white patterns for us and then let us paint them ourselves (with minimal criticism, considering it was her).

4. She used to raise money for a local orchestra and made my parents buy season tickets every year, which meant I got to go to classical concerts throughout junior high and high school, which was when I was playing viola myself. I really enjoyed those concerts and used to make notations of which classical pieces I wanted to use in the movies I would make when I grew up to be a famous movie director (what happened?).

5. She sold my parents her old car for $1000, so "my first car" (my parents were clear that it didn't belong to me, and I couldn't drive it without permission, but still) was a 1990 Acura Legend (this was in 2001). I was only allowed to drive to school and back, but still, it was pretty sweet.

Okay. My dad. Five things:

1. Even though he was angry at me for living at home again, my dad got me a whole box of books from Amazon for my 23rd birthday. I think there were six of them! I couldn't believe it! He got me The Keep by Jennifer Egan, Between the Bridge and the River by Craig Ferguson, St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves by Lauren Russel, Winter's Bone by Daniel Woodrell, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke, and The Invention of Everything Else by Samantha Hunt. The first four I read almost immediately, and they were all very good. I checked out the audiobook of Jonathan Strange (30 disks!) at the library and "read" it that way so I could have my hands free to sew a dress (still haven't finished the dress, but the book was a lot of fun). The only one I haven't been able to get through is Invention (it's fakey-historical: excessive historical details, like the characters are aware that they're living in the "past"). I'm still amazed by how generous he was.

2. When I was 11, he got me a dictionary of etymology I desperately wanted for Christmas, even though it cost $50. I still have it and still use it often, even though the author's explanations are sometimes more creative than scholarly.

3. He took me to the movies a lot as a child and a teen, even as often as three times a week in the summers.

4. When I bought my car, he walked into the dealership ahead of me and (physically?) grabbed a female salesperson and made her help me so I would stand a chance in the negotiations. (Wait--is that a good thing? Or was he trying to undermine my confidence again? I think he meant well, so I'll let this one stand.)

5. He helped me move to college, and then home again four years later when I had three times as much stuff and needed a small U-Haul trailer that I would have been unable to tow myself.

6. I'll add a sixth one--why not? When I got Phi Beta Kappa membership (I was too sick from stress and overwork to go to the induction, so I'm not sure how to phrase that), he bought me the gold pin, even though I told him I never wear jewelry and didn't want it. He was too proud to take no for an answer, and it moves me to tears whenever I come across it.

Okay, so that's pretty good, right? On Thursday, I can focus on the positive and try to stay strong. And if that fails, I can do what I've done every year since I turned 21--hide in a back hallway, in the dark, crying into a glass of cheap Merlot while my dad and my grandma, who are both going deaf, disparage me loudly in the living room, thinking I can't hear them.

They think I can't hear them, right?