Do The Right Thing in The Stuff That's Not Interesting But Is The Most Interesting Stuff I'll Write

I had to escape this week. Karen, my mother’s friend whom I used to live with, invited me to stay at her place for the week since the service arrangements were going to absolutely overwhelm everything in my neck of the woods. So I fled. I wanted a bed and peace and quiet and no mention of my grandmother. That, coupled with my work week, started giving me anxiety.

I hate that I get anxiety. It’s the worse thing ever. And I hate when people say things like “don’t worry”… ok, sure I’ll just do that. Is it because I’m afraid? I’m supposed to catch a train to San Francisco today and spend the weekend with the only two people with whom I have ever enjoyed that miserable city. And suddenly everyone is so concerned that I’m not going to the service tomorrow, but I’ve been saying for literally months that I’m not going.

Family members keep saying things about it like “Justin says he won’t be there, but he always ends up doing the right thing in the end”. WTF does that mean? I am tired of being treated like I’m going to break just because the only member of my family to unconditionally love me passed away. I am tired of having to constantly explain and react to the singular moment in time when my aunt and uncle destroyed my life. I am tired of having to explain that I don’t want to do both at the same time at some service filled with 240 people.

If you invite people to look closer at you, they will and you will never having your privacy back.

My father offered to go with me to the service if I wanted to go. My father hasn’t been in my life for very long, and he has told me over and over about how he is terrified of funerals and memorials and that the only two he’s been to were for his parents. I had mentioned that there were photos of him in Grandma’s service and he responded with surprise. He’s always surprised when he is included in my family because he doesn’t believe he’s regarded fondly (I suppose we have that in common).

That launched a landslide of invitations, from Karen to my mother to my grandfather, trying to find ways for me to go. My mother started crying about how it’s “not fair”. Nobody seems to remember that this was my choice. I decided that I’d been to enough funeral services, I don’t want to deal with that agony on top of the rage of dealing with my aunt and uncle, so I would have a getaway with people I love. I would remember how to live.

“You’ll regret it”

“…he always does the right thing in the end.”

What exactly does that mean? Prioritizing your desires and wants over my own state of mental health? You’re right, I did always do “the right thing” in the end. But that time has passed. Now I’m going to do the right thing… for me. And Grandma would be pleased with that.

I’ll write you all when I get back from San Francisco and not before, because I want to enjoy myself and not live in my head for once.