Family...

I have the tendency to blissfully forget my place in the world, and sadly I am being reminded of it. A child of divorce, family was always a different concept to me. While most people had one family, I was blessed with two. As a child this was great, double the celebrations, double the presents. As I grew older, I realized that having two families is double the problems, not double the fun.

The problem with two families is the lack of acceptance as a full bodied family member. For example, my mother remarried and had two children. Since I have lived the majority of my life with my mother and that family, I tend to consider myself a member of said family; however, I am realizing that only my mother and I do (sometimes my sister). Could that be because she was the one who always knew we were a package? In that family, I am an extra…I ruin the makeup of the happy couple, one boy, one girl, and a dog. I throw a kink into what American society says should happen.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been afforded the luxuries of living there and participating in the family, but as the real children grow older, I am being pushed farther and farther away. The little prince doesn’t have cable TV and I give up mine to appease him. The little princess’s room is now too small—a room bigger than the one I had at her age, with the exact same furniture and more stuff, worked fine for me—and I am supposed to consider switching with her? Ah, I see…they are family members; I’m just the tag-a-long.

What about the second family? That side gets a little more complicated. That family broke up…formed a new one…and broke up again. That family now consists of my father…refer to earlier post.

Not accepted by my father, nor by my family, I’m left to wander and feel unwelcomed in my own home. I now understand why they put me in counseling for divorced children…too bad I was eight and did not comprehend.