Picture this... You are walking through the airport and you suddenly encounter a cute little elderly couple getting verbally attacked by a person half their age. The silver-haired woman, in her jewel-toned wind suit and coordinating fanny pack, and the man, in his bifocals and hearing aids, are just standing there, completely befuddled. You would want to intervene on their behalf, wouldn't you? I know I certainly would... except there's only one minor problem. The person screaming at them uncontrollably is none other than me!
Yep, that's how I left things the last time I saw my parents. What is wrong with me? Who yells at old people?
There are issues that run so deep in my family (the family in which I am the daughter, not the one in which I am the wife/mother, thank God!). Issues that can take people down. We have my brother, who is about halfway through his stint at rehab as a stellar example, and my unhinged, slightly maniacal ass, as another. Why can't the skeletons emerge? Why can't they be discussed? Why can't I get any real, concrete answers or feelings or thoughts out of my parents?
And as horrible as this sounds, I still believe I am right. No, I take that back. I know I am right. But I am starting to realize that there won't be any convincing them of that, and even if that miracle were to happen, at what cost? Am I going to be demanding an apology when they are on their deathbeds? Am I going to continue to insist that they acknowledge my feelings, when there may come a day when they don't even know me?
I guess my anger towards them has subsided enough to let the guilt creep in. I was really enjoying my indignant self-righteousness, staking my claim to that ever-so desirable real estate commonly known as the moral high ground.
I have got to find a way to love them unconditionally, in spite of themselves. They've certainly done that small favor for me.