The first time I read Harry Potter I was ten, nearly eleven. And you know what? I was jealous of him. His “family” treated him like shit and his newfound friends acknowledged that. He even got to get away from them for almost a year. I always wanted to go to boarding school, but there is no such thing here. I wished I was an orphan.
When I was eleven I had a big rowdy family. Half of that was the family that I was connected to through a rapist. I don’t speak to anyone of them anymore, even if none of them knew; they still acknowledge him as part of their family, and then they are not mine. Other than that I had two aunts, two uncles and a grandmother. My youngest aunt and I have never really gotten along. She has a master in art history and I’m the desperate sort of artist, roaming the streets making poetry when you’re half-dead from starvation, she’s not. I’m not even certain she knows that I am. We argue a lot. Even now. She’s also now, turns out her husband doesn’t like women. They’re friends though. My other aunt is dead. Her husband has a new girlfriend, who is lovely, but they are both Indonesian, and he intends to move back; she can’t stay here for more than there months or so a year. My grandmother is dead. The children of my living aunt are of the very oldest of my group of cousins, they’ve lived good, stable lives and one of them has two kids. I’m the black sheep and until a handful of years ago I was still half their age. We don’t talk much. The daughters of my dead aunt are manipulative arseholes. I’m not lying or exaggerating, they have their own sets of techniques and diagnoses, but they are still just petty little selfish arseholes. My living aunt has cancer. My mother has M.E. And they are only thinking of themselves, and using all the manipulating techniques they have to get their will and humiliate their aunts as much as possible in the process of dealing with my grandmother’s belongings. They’re greedy. All they want is more money and power. They don’t have much of course, but neither does anyone else. Just today, one of them sent a message saying that she was too scared to meet my sister; my mother’s step in due to her cognitive problems, and my -got cancer treatment three days ago- aunt. So instead when my aunt, who by the way doesn’t live here at all, goes up to the house to take a look around three of them show up.
I don’t say that lightly, and I know I confessed to being a coward myself in my last post. I am. I am a coward, but I protect myself because I know what it means to break. If I don’t protect myself I will likely end up in a mental hospital, and frankly, with gifts like mine, that would be a wretched waste. They are cowards in a different way. They like the taste of power. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it all before. In a rapist. In several, and in all the selfish manipulative people I’ve met. Which is a fair lot, given my attraction to intelligent and dangerous people.
The worst part though, is watching them hurt the people I love, knowing that if this fucking illness I have wasn’t there, I could beat them so hard at their own game they wouldn’t dare be in the same house as me for a very long time. I was bred into this. I enjoy being hated by people like them, as it strengthens me to know that people hate what they fear and what threatens them. And I want to do just that. But I cannot. So I sit here now, and watch my family shrink to a meagre nine people. And that’s including my aunts and uncles and cousins who I have spoken to five times in the past decade. I hope that by the end of this I won’t be an orphan. I’ve felt like one for so very long.