What does family mean to you ?
“Family”, has meant many different things to me in my life. Sadness, anger, fear, safety, freedom, pain, togetherness, and solitude. It’s true that family doesn’t mean to me what it means to others, to others family is a great source of comfort, it is their source of power, where I find it to be my kryptonite. From age zero, to I’d say eleven, it is like we stare at our family through the crack of only a slightly opened door, never truly seeing everything on the other side. We only see what our innocent minds allow us to, until that one day when that door that has so protected our precious ignorant minds, is opened to us. Once this door is open,we see everything that was once invisible to us. We see the hideous paint on the walls, the shitty mismatched furniture, and the mysterious dark stain on the carpet. We are seeing all these flaws all at once and it hits us like a speeding train, flattening us and crushing our sweet ideals. All we want to do is close the door, we don’t want to gaze upon that fucked up room that we are now forced to live with, we want to go back to our blissful ignorance where everything was rainbows and fucking butterflies, but unfortunately for our young minds, it is too late, we have seen too much, the innocence is lost. My family played a good part in who I am today. I have them to thank for a lot of my baggage, both good and bad. My family has both held me back, and pushed me forward in life, and I wouldn’t change any of them for the world. My parents, though mostly rocker hippies, have always supported me in any adventure that caught my attention, no matter how crazy. My father taught me to dream big and my mother to work hard for those dreams, and my sister always helped me up when I fell down. My young life was no where near easy, I had to work twice as hard for everything I have today, and am greatful for things some people would never even think twice about. I hung out with my aunt today, who I had lived the first three years in Canada with. She helped heal me when I was nothing more than a sad, broken little girl. And my beautiful cousin who is a fierce amazon, I say that because she’s like a five foot nine blond bombshell. We spent the afternoon and evening talking about our trials and triumphs, about the mistakes we made after our prospective doors opened. I learned once again that everyone has their own shitty room that they are tied to, and was reminded of my own. It continues to amaze me at how fragile human children are, we all start out as these small glass figurines in the hands of our guardians clumsy sweaty hands, constantly being dropped, until in the end, even though we are strong, we are still filled with cracks. More times than not, I lock my door and ignore that room. Now I have a whole house to play with, one that I have built to my liking, there’s no reason to look in that room again. Every now and then, a skeleton breaks open the door and beats me with a titanium baseball bat until I’m black and blue. I can’t say I blame it, no one likes being ignored. That room that we all lock away in our hearts, the one with all the broken memories, just needs a new coat of paint. Maybe some better furniture. Then maybe you can invite your family over and make some new memories.