My stepfather has a gigantic family. Gi-gan-tic. They're descendants of Welsh immigrants that came to South Jersey in... get this... the 17th century. Yep. And they all stayed, more or less, right where they settled, for over 300 years. Brilliant. Only in America... sort of.
So, at the Thanksgiving Reunion yesterday, there were 140 B___'s present. 140! But there was one person present that really stood out: my step-nephew M.
M. was diagnosed with schizophrenia not too long ago, and had some trepidation about coming down to the circus that is the B___ Thanksgiving. He was doing quite well--he's got some awesome medications now--and I got to talk to him for a while.
Why is this important?
Because I'm bipolar. And because my early 20s --the age he is now-- were equally full of family strife, unemployment, and struggle for normalcy. While we didn't get into the trading of war stories, I could tell it was comforting for him to speak with someone who knew, at least in part, what it's like to live with a brain that makes you suffer.
My mother saw us talking and promptly burst into tears. Those years were traumatic for her as well, but now with things so much better (knock on wood), she felt an immense relief knowing that I could speak with M. without getting sucked down into despair.
And for that she was grateful. And I am grateful. And M., though he struggles, is also grateful that he was able to find a little corner of comfort in the chaos that is Thanksgiving at the Fellowship Hall.
Gratitude. And Hope.
The Ghosts of Border House Blog Tour
9 months ago
