Idol Prompt #16: Fool’s Errand

Your mom says she’s sorry and knows it’s her fault things are so screwed up. But she misses you and really wants to see you. Will you come spend Thanksgiving with us?

And here we fucking go. Again.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

For many, the holidays are a time of tremendous joy. Of love and family. Of laughter. Many embrace the notions of peace on Earth and goodwill toward your fellow human. Many believe it is a time you should forgive past transgressions, wipe the slate clean, begin anew, and the host of other happy-happy-joy-joy bullshit that gets crammed down our throats this time of year. For many, the holidays represent a time of hope.

It’s a nice concept. It’s a beautiful idea. But for many of us, the holidays are nothing more than empty platitudes no more substantial than rice cakes, putting a smile on your face you hope doesn’t look too fake, and praying you can make it through the day without snapping so hard, you end up catching a fucking charge. Nothing ruins the holidays quite like spending the night in a holding cell. Or so I’ve heard.

As I sit here, contemplating the text from my dad, I can’t help but think about how many times I’ve read the same exact words. How many times she’s expressed her regrets, her profound sorrow, her love, and her vow to change. Every year, I’m promised that things will be different and that we’ll spend a good day together, as a family. And every year, nothing changes.

“You need to decide.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think anybody will blame you for not going.”

“I don’t think anybody will either.”

“But?”

“It’s not about what anybody else will think.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“It’s about what I think.”

“Which is?”

That’s the trouble, I don’t know what I think, which I realize, is probably stupid. After so many years of enduring the same cycle of hope-disappointment-anger you’d think I’d have figured it out by now. If only everything was so simple. If only everything was so black and white. If only I could remove emotion and my own lifelong issues from the equation, it would make things a hell of a lot easier.

“And what do you think?”

“I have no fucking idea.”

All I’ve ever wanted is to have a normal, loving family. All I’ve ever wanted is to have the sort of family you see in goddamn Hallmark Channel holiday movies. I’ve spent my life silently jealous of my friends who genuinely enjoy spending the holidays with their families. Seeing how the love and happiness shared among their family feeds and nourishes their soul only serves to remind me how fucking anorexic mine is in comparison.

Time and experience have blunted my expectations, though. They’ve taught me I’m never actually going to have what I’ve spent my entire life wanting. And as a result, I’ve found myself willing to accept less. I’ve become willing to settle.

Despite desiring it with all my heart and soul, I no longer need the Norman fucking Rockwell kind of family. I don’t need Leave it to Beaver or the Brady Bunch. But enjoying a holiday with a family less dysfunctional than the Gallagher clan on that show, Shameless, would be a nice fucking change of pace.

“You could skip it this year.”

“I could.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I should.”

I can’t recall a time in my life when the holidays were the source of joy so many believe them to be. I’ve never known a time when I felt peace or any sense of goodwill. It hit me a couple of years ago that our presence during the holidays is less about wanting us to be together as a family and mostly about wanting her to feel better about things. Allowing her to pretend, if only for a day, that we’re a loving family. That we’re normal and just like everybody else.

This isn’t about wiping the slate clean and starting anew. This isn’t about coming together as a family to share a day of joy, laughter, peace, and goodwill. No, this is about nothing more than making her feel okay and finding yet another way to excuse her behavior.

“What if you told them you’ll only come if she behaves herself?”
“I’ve tried that. It never works.”

She usually manages to hold it together for the first few hours. Just long enough for me to think that maybe, just maybe, things will be different this year. At some point though, she’ll inevitably slip out of the room and take a nip or two. It’s just to take the edge off, she likes to say. After she starts down that slippery slope though, it’s not long before everything goes off the fucking rails.

“Why don’t you just tell them no? Why not just tell them you don’t want to deal with her bullshit this year?”

“I should.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“It’s complicated.”

It shouldn’t be. Given her track record, I already know what’s going to happen. But there’s that stubborn, stupid piece of me that keeps hoping things will be different this year. That stubborn, stupid piece of me that wants to believe she’ll actually keep her shit together. That stubborn, stupid piece of me that desperately wants a normal, loving family. That wants to feel that sense of joy and love I used to see on the faces of my friends when they were with their families.

I’ve tried to kill that piece of me. Tried to rip it out by the roots and accept the fact that I’ll never have that. I’ve tried to learn to accept what we are and find enjoyment in the small moments, which, to be fair, we do have every now and then. Moments. They’re fleeting and they never last long, but there are moments when I feel something akin to the sort of joy my friends must feel. The sort of love I’ve craved since I was a kid. But no matter how ruthlessly I tear those stupid desires out, they grow back like fucking weeds.

“So? What are you going to do?”

I stare at my phone, reading my dad’s all-too-familiar words. I sometimes wonder if he just keeps it in his draft folder to send every single year like the kind of generic and impersonal Christmas card you send to distant relations or random acquaintances you’re not particularly close to.

“Well?”

“I don’t know.”

Spending the holidays with them and expecting anything to be different is a fool’s errand. I’ve been down that road far too many times already to actually believe otherwise. My mother’s drinking ruins everything. It’s difficult enough to break the bonds of addiction, but it’s even harder when you don’t even try. And outside of the few hours in the morning she manages to hold it together, my mother has never really tried.

Once she starts getting sloppy, things tend to deteriorate quickly. That leads to the annual holiday blowout, which then leads to months of radio silence, which then becomes the fucking text message I’m reading right now. It’s every bit as inevitable and predictable as the sun rising in the east. Any sane person would avoid the drama, frustration, and heartache, pull the covers over their head, ignore the world, and sleep the holidays away.

“But that’s not you, is it?”

“I wish it was.”

“You’re part of the problem. By showing up every year, you’re showing her there are no consequences for her actions. You’re enabling her.”

“I know.”

“And all you’re doing is hurting yourself.”

“I know that too.”

“She cares more about her bottle than anything else. Her addiction is holding her tight.”

“Yeah.”

“You know where this goes. Why are you letting yourself get caught up in all this nonsense?”

“I don’t know.”

My jaw clenched and feeling an uncommon surge of strength, I start typing out a reply. I love you both, but don’t want to do this again. I’m going to pass…

“Finish your message. You’re almost there.”

I stare at the blinking cursor, reading the beginning of my reply. As I do, I imagine the hurt they’re going to feel. I imagine the tears my mom will shed and feel a stab of guilt so intense it takes my breath away.

With a sigh, I delete my message and quickly type out a new one.

I’ll be there by noon. See you then.

“Well, I guess that’s that.”

“Maybe this year will be different.”

“Maybe.”

“This is the season of hope, after all. Right?”