Until I went to graduate school, I spent 22 years living within a 10-mile radius of my childhood home.  The only time I hadn’t lived in my parents’ house was the four years I spent at university – which included a visit home every weekend.  My father was born and raised in my home state; my mother had moved there after college graduation because that’s where her parents lived.  Dad is not the adventurous type, and if it weren’t for Mom, we never would have gone camping on the sea coast or made the pilgrimage to Disney World.  My brother Mike[1] inherited Dad’s homebody gene, thinking there’s no place better than his home state.  He now lives only 15 miles from our childhood home.

When I got into graduate school, I was at the point in my life when I was ready to escape the nightmare that my parents’ marriage had become.  Of course I was pursuing higher education, but I couldn’t wait to live somewhere else and shed the yucky feeling that being around my parents gave me.  Yes, I was running away from them, but also running toward a future in which I could “start over” and make new friends.  Boy, was I ever naïve.  You can’t “start over” if you haven’t dealt with the subconscious crap in your head.  This is where I made my mistake – thinking I was going to be a new and better person because I moved away from my parents.

I was running away, although I never admitted this to myself or my family.  I still wanted to be a part of my family, just on my terms.  My brother thought that my going away to school, and my subsequent move out west, was a conscious attempt to not be a part of my family,  although I didn’t know this until three years after I moved back east.  During the six years I was out west, Mike never made an effort to come see me, even when my parents offered to pay.  When I moved back east – three hours from his house – he and Meg visited me once in three years.  I would make frequent trips home, every couple of months, and would want to spend time with Mike and Meg.  They were always busy.

Finally I told him on the phone that I wanted to talk with him when I came home for Thanksgiving.  He wanted to talk right then.  I told him about my experience in therapy and how I feel that Mom and Dad’s marriage was a horrible model for me and I was trying to get over my emotional hurdles.  Mike doesn’t see their marriage in the same way I do.  Then I asked why I never get to see him, that I was the one making all the effort, and didn’t Meg like me?  He responded with, “Well, you don’t want to be part of this family.  Isn’t that why you moved out west?”

I was gobsmacked.  I couldn’t believe my ears.  For nearly nine years, Mike had silently resented me for following my career path out west, thinking that I didn’t want to be part of the family.  His way of punishing me for this was by shutting me out and not going out of his way to spend time with me.  I talked him through my emotional journey.  We reached an understanding:  When I traveled home, they would make time for me and when they make their annual vacation to the shore we would spend a few hours together on the beach.

Things have really improved since the birth of Mike and Meg’s daughter, Grace.  The focus is now off us and on her.  Mike and I have started to communicate better and the resentment has melted away, although I do wish that he would go to therapy to get rid of the lingering effects of our parents’ marriage that I see in him.

[1] Names have been changed.

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From Psych Central's website:
PsychCentral (November 23, 2009)

    Last reviewed: 23 Nov 2009