Blood is Thicker than Water

“Blood is thicker than water” is such a cruel saying. “No matter what they do to you, no matter how poisonous, you’re bound to your birth family above all else,” it’s saying. “Your blood relationships matter more than everyone and everything.” I disagree.

Growing up, my dad didn’t believe me. At least, not enough to do anything that would actually protect me from my mom. “You just have to forgive her,” I was told over and over. “That’s like telling me I just have to learn to fly,” I would sob. “I don’t know what that means! I don’t know how!” and he’d shrug and look back to the road.

The last few times I saw my mother, I went numb. I don’t remember very clearly what happened, I don’t think she did anything particularly frightening, but I’d find myself curled in the fetal position until she’d leave.

That is what “family” means to me. A force that I need to go limp around until it loses interest in my non-response and moves on. Something to endure.

————

A year or so ago Matt and I tried something together. It was a lot of fun for me, but started to go sour for the both of us fast. We spent a few months trying to make it work until finally the strain on our relationship was too much and he told me, “Erika, we’re not doing well.”

All the air sucked out of my lungs.

I gasped and gasped, hearing my ragged, violent attempts to inhale, but my throat had closed and I couldn’t pull in any air.

“Erika, baby, slow down! Slow breaths! You’re hyperventilating, you need to slow down!” Matt had his hand on my back as my face turned red, down on all fours because I couldn’t stand. I fought against my impulses and eventually slowed my gasps.

We held each other on the floor, a tangle of arms locking us together into an unbreakable ball.

That was that.

All my desire for the preoccupation that had challenged us evaporated in an instant. My lizard brain knew what mattered most, what it could not live without. There was no choosing because the only thing my heart wanted was to be with my husband. My other half. My family.

————

Five years ago I cut off all contact with my mother, which I expected to feel racked with guilt for doing, but instead I felt like a boulder had been lifted off my body. I have never regretted it, not for an instant. The rest of my biological family I interact with rarely, which I know hurts them, but it hurts me more to relive the fear and terror and turmoil of those years in that house. When I see them, when I talk with them, I’m right back where I was all those years ago. Limp and numb, praying for the storm to pass.

So I don’t see them. I don’t talk with them. I feel guilt, but it’s better than the alternative.

I abandoned my blood family. I had to, or I wouldn’t have survived.

I made my own family out of my coworkers and friends and lovers.

Periscope Studio is my family. My friends are my family. My husband is my family.

They are the earth that my roots are buried in, the water that nourishes me. They are what makes me thrive.

The prospect that my connection to any of them could be in jeopardy plunges my body into a physical response of panic. I cannot breathe without them.

I’ll take the water over blood every day, every time.