When Blood Is Thinner Than Water

A year or so ago I wrote an article about people that can reveal themselves as toxic in one’s life. It is hard to draw a line between ourselves and others we consider friends. Then this happened to me.

Circles of Hell

I do not enjoy talking about myself or my life. I like to keep my privacy within the walls of my house and a quite tight circle of people. It is hard for me to accept what my life became and where I am heading.

I do not enjoy talking about myself or my life. I like to keep my privacy within the walls of my house and a quite tight circle of people. It is hard for me to accept what my life became and where I am heading.

With that said, and this is where it gets trickier for me. I do not believe in a “higher purpose” or that “everything happens for a reason.” I do not believe we are born with a predestined path to follow. I have more of a scientific mind when it comes to life and my approach to it is “it happened because it happened.” You have the choice of left or right, but that is your choice not fate or destiny.

It doesn’t mean that once you are born, because you have no purpose there is no point to live. You choose to do with your life what you will and come what may you decide in the end if you matter or not. That is the beauty and cruelty of life…to me.

Dante’s Inferno says there are nine circles in Hell. Sometimes I believe that I might fall right to the bottom of it all. Nobody’s sinless and my hands are no “whiter” than another. But what happened to me recently showed me that Hell is not as deep as one might think.

Six Feet Deep

To explain my pain and guilt, I must first say that I am an only child and so is my mother. When she was pregnant of me at a young age, surprise-surprise, the father abandoned her. She lived with her parents who ended up raising me so her life could continue, as it should have had without me.

Now that it’s out of the way, after both my grandparents passed, it hit me, “I’m kind of sort of an orphan.” The pain is real even though my mother is alive and well. The hole is present and is not going away. One would think my mother would reach out to me and she did for a short while but then it turned to radio silent.

Her husband takes much space in her life. It is all right, I am not a child nor am I a young adult. I am married and share a pretty house with the love of my life in the sticks accompanied with our dog, Carey. But, I felt shun as if dead while alive. I am a convenience when wanted and cast in the shadow once my part is played.

Maybe I’m just digging my own grave without the knowledge of it.

Dig Deeper Creep

My mother’s husband, let’s call him Mr. X, was not a fan of me right off the bat. I’m in my mid thirties, he met me I was maybe twenty-eight. I wear DC Comics, Walt Disney, Monster High, True Blood, Star Trek clothing. I love talking the latest news at Nasa, the latest BBC Earth documentary about history, Nat Geo Wild’s research about s

There are things I don’t like mentioning because it sounds condescending or as if I’m showing off. I usually keep my mouth shut. I’m not someone who likes having the spotlight of their heads. I went to acting schools for thirteen years of my life and learned ballet as well. My friends often refer to me as Android, Data, Lex (smartest villain Lex Luthor,) or Ms. Sheldon/Cooper.

Yes, my knowledge of science, ancient history, and speculative science. When I was a kid, my grandmother did—for real—had me tested to know if I was crazy. I was not but the results proved that my IQ was above average close to the qualifications of “Smart.” Many factors came in to play, I am a lefty and the brain must adapt at a young age in a world that seem to be acting in reverse. I grew up in art, so the brain develop skills younger than most.

I had fascinations surrounding nightmares, terrors, horror, death, and the unexplained. I watched shows going from “Beyond Belief” to “Mythbusters” and everything in between to learn about myths and legends. One of my greatest passions is vampires due to their presence in ancient civilizations from around the world, I’m talking from Africa to Australia, Denmark to Brazil going back millennia.

He qualified me as a creep.

Someone Needs A Therapist

To pile on with subjects that rubbed me the wrong way with Mr. X was his disdain of the French people. Although living in Québec, which is an Eastern French province in Canada, despises French married my mother, a Frenchwoman.

My grandfather was raised in French born Mohawk. My grandmother was raised English, but learned French, as an Acadian woman from the Maritimes province of New Brunswick. My mother learned both language but as she grew older she used less of her English and turned more French.

As for me, I learned English at a young age mostly on my own, and I’m married to an Englishman born in Québec—he also knows how to speak, read and write French. I was raised not to judge anyone by where they are from but to be curious about the world. I did not travel much but I met people from everywhere.

Mr. X, traveled a lot all of his life, and ended up working for Air Canada that permits him to travel even more. He never let an opportunity go to waste for reminding me that I am close-minded for not traveling. Sorry I do not have the money to do so. Not everyone can decide one morning to go have dinner in England.

His misogynist tendencies showed when I noticed how much he would respect the opinion of my husband or another man but not the woman. My mother is submissive I am not. My grandmother was an active feminist and my grandfather taught me how a man should treat a woman: equally in every single way. That was not what I witnessed.

Years In The Making

Every time seeing my mother meant to see Mr. X which triggered my PTSD, chronic anxiety, and the desire to enrol in the MMA to beat the shit out of someone. I have acute IBS, gluten and lactose intolerances, I cannot digest meat and that had him make fun of me and not miss one opportunity to point it out to everyone when gathering would occur.

Mr. X took quite an evil pleasure in poking the bear in me for years now. Every chance he got at reminding me I’m not traveling, “This one is special she can’t eat anything,” my clothing style, my interests, or that my family’s white trash. If you are not of his family or circle or English Canadian with a penis, he might not like you. That should be his warning label.

He hurt me for the last time a few days ago. My closest friends heard me for years speaking of him driving me insane. He hated my grandpa—my Mufasa, not only because he was French but also because he was Native but had no proof. My husband and I gave him a wake up call when telling him he had the DNA test done, and so did many of his sisters and brothers.

Side note: I do not need to prove shit to anyone when it comes to my bloodline. He wanted me to take the test to prove my grandpa was Native. Guess what, I need no proof; my grandpa’s word is enough for me.

Every Choice Has A Price

It wasn’t enough to shit all over my grandfather’s bloodline, or marry my mother as a trophy: you know, an Englishman marrying a French Native to prove he’s smarter than anyone else. He had to massacre the house that build me and call it, “It’s just a pile of money for me. We do renovations for the value. I do not care about the house.”

He hates my French, my bloodline, my clothes, my mental/digestive problems, my sex, my music, that I don’t drink, don’t smoke, and basically my entire life. So, why in the nine circles of Hell did I let this man in my life? I did it for my mother. But it was enough.

Mr. X says he likes debate, but what’s a debate if all one does is poking the bear? Also, what is a debate if the person cannot, for the life of themselves, let you try to make your point but instead raise their voices over yours to make their point?

He said, because I did mention my IQ, my many certificates and advanced studies, that I know what I’m talking about when it comes to French people and Native Americans, “You can’t accept that you can’t win.” Whatever, I’m not going to fight for that. However, he dared mentioning Native Americans and my husband gave him a warning not to go there because I know the behind the scenes.

Two words in and I walked away.

Run To The Hills

I packed up my stuff and left the house. I wished my mother who walked away from the confrontation almost immediately to say I had to leave and never come back. I took the decision for my sanity. Every time I stood in front of Mr. X was like I was skinned alive.

I could overlook many things but my grandpa is my Mufasa, my King Triton, I will defend him until my last breath. Mr. X didn’t stop at the heating conversation or me being a “sore loser,” even though that wasn’t a debate it was a lost cause from the beginning.

He walked outside and ordered me off the land that raised me. He insulted my intelligence, choice of clothing and more as I was walking toward the car. My husband stopped him right after he gave me the finger. My mother stood there. I knew I was alone.

I wish my mother love, happiness and joy for the rest of her days. I can hope she realizes that her husband suffers from much insecurity and needs professional help in the anger department. Wanting to constantly have “debates,” the incapability to recognize someone else’s argument to be valid even though that so-said person has a vagina, is a problem.

As of today they are both blocked from my life. It is not a question of time because it is not reversible. One can only give a hand so many times before the person decide to drown. I can’t let my mother drag me down with her. Mr. X was slowly killing me. Now, I must live with my choice: no more of them in my life.

I will be okay.

The OCD Nerd,
Alexa Wayne

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