Caveat lector: this is, in fact, a reflection on gratitude. But you’ll have to indulge me first. Although this time of year is touted as a time to reflect on the importance of the people in our lives and revel in our gratitude for our family of origin, chosen family, and friends, for many it is also a deeply mournful season. Whether because our family of origin is one we have chosen to cut ties with or been abandoned by, we live far from our chosen family and cannot enjoy the holiday season in their company, we have lost key members of our families who have moved on to their next best life, or we are still searching for a community in which we feel safe and loved, this time of year is an overflowing cornucopia of emotions.
When I was young, I believed in the fantasy my mother had made it her life’s mission to create, that our family was stronger and better than those of our typical American counterparts, whose families were a diaspora, who didn’t prioritize respect and deference to their elders. In some ways, ethnic families can be stronger than others. We love hard, fight harder, talk louder, and never give up on any members of the pack no matter how out of line they might get. In other ways, ethnic families can be challenging, especially for the “black sheep” of the family (now, more affectionately called “cycle breakers”). Breaking away from the pack and establishing a new nuclear family (whether through marriage or friendship) is nearly impossible, yet sometimes imperative, at least for some period of time. To complicate matters, cycle breakers don’t always understand the assignment, and spend too much of their lives lost, lonely, railing against injustices they can’t quite name, and wondering whether there is a place they belong.
As my teenage years approached, and I began feeling trapped rather than supported by my big, fat, ethnic family, I became aware of the overwhelming feelings of loneliness and longing I had been unable to recognize in my search for connection in the books I read for hours at a time, in the friends I collected and outgrew, in the activities I tried and quit. I couldn’t help but grow increasingly melancholy about my inability to find “the one.” The one book I would want with me if I were ever deserted on an island. A true, best, friend. A passion I could devote myself to and maybe even excel at. The only thing I was consistent about was being inconsistent, fickle–about the foods I ate and didn’t eat, about the music I liked and didn’t like, about the people I was emotionally and/or physically attracted to.
After my first (and probably only) one best friend moved to Florida when we were in fourth grade, I always seemed to be the third wheel in someone else’s best friendship, moving from one triad to another throughout elementary, middle, and high school. First there were Emily & Rachel, then Melissa & Carrie, then Amy & Kate, then Kate & Carolyn, then Vanessa & Melinda, then Melanie & Maria. As I hitchhiked from one nuclear friendship to another, I became more and more convinced I was simply not destined to find my one true partner in adventure.
The pattern, it turns out, has continued throughout my life, not only with friendships but also with romantic relationships. Maybe triangulation is the only attachment style I know–the oldest of three sisters, our mother one of three siblings, there was always a mediator between two others, or one odd-person out. I knew if I ever married, it would be to “the one” — not in the sense of there being only one person meant for me whom I was destined to meet and fall in love with, but in the sense that we would be each other’s primary attachment. I didn’t want to wonder where I stood with my partner: I wanted to be certain we stood together as equals. Equal in our affection for one another; equal in our contributions to the family system; equal in our share of the power in our family system.
It turns out, this equation is the dealbreaker for me in a long-term relationship. Not endless incidental tensions, not sharp left turns when I thought we were going right, not even gender or differences in opinion or hobbies and interests. One of the character traits I love most about myself (not that it doesn’t come with an equal amount of frustration) is my ability to be open, curious, and therefore, flexible. My innate wonder at the world and those who inhabit it affords me a high level of frustration tolerance. I’m willing to be uncomfortable in order to experience something new or attempt to see a different point of view. I’m, for lack of a less overused word, resilient. Sometimes, to a fault.
My ability to bend to the interests and desires of others has helped me learn to see all sides of an issue, regardless of whether I hold the same perspective. This can be dangerous when I lose myself in deference to others. In reminding myself that my point of view is not the only point of view, I can get lost in empathy for my partners. I can let tiny encroachments on my boundaries creep closer and closer, until the boundary has been crossed and I’m left to draw up an army of insults and accusations that push the opposing forces away. I too easy give up my share of power in the system, and then lose sight of the system as a whole in my manic attempts to re-establish control of my 50%.
While it’s a vicious cycle, I haven’t quite figured out how to break it yet. And herein comes the long awaited reflection on gratitude: for my big, fat, ethnic family for providing a safe space in which to challenge and take on the world. For my first partner in adventure, for giving me the courage to leave home and teaching me the importance of boundaries. For my second partner in adventure, for giving me the opportunity to learn I still had room to grow as a person. She challenges my belief that more than one story about an experience can be true at the same time. She is teaching me to speak the languages of the people I love. She tests my boundaries, and I am slowly but surely figuring out how to hold them with just the right amount of strength.
(mostly) full disclosure 