soopastryheart

There are only two things in this world that I will love unconditionally: doughnuts and my family. I’ve talked about each with equal adulation, although if I had an ultimatum, I’d choose the latter  (by a hairline of a margin).

This love we share for and with each other mandates all the major choices in our lives. And maybe that makes us too dependent on one another, but I’ve never seen it that way. I have a support system that compares to no other, and one that I would never want to change. But because I’ve had such a kick-ass foundation under me, I’ve always had difficulty understanding those who don’t know what it means to be as close. I’ve secretly pitied them, felt boastful about the fact that I grew up so lucky.

That’s why, when it comes to my paternal grandmother, it’s difficult to admit she’s family. There’s an absence, a lack of connection, and a barrier that keeps me from admitting I’ve loved her in ways I wish were true. There was time in my life where this woman raised me, while my parents were on a different continent, trying to establish a life. There was once a time where cute anecdotes were shared about how she allowed my entire mouth to rot over the summer and the horrendous bowl-cuts she opted to give me. It’s difficult trying to understand what the hell went wrong in our relationship, to designate where exactly we began deteriorating. But somewhere along the line, I grew up, and I began to understand the rifts that inevitably pull families apart… and realized she was the one causing them.

And despite my attempts and half-assed efforts, I could never find it in myself to forgive my grandmother.

I never bothered to understand her life; a woman who escaped a war, bore more than half a dozen children, losing a few on the way. My dad told us stories about his childhood, where my grandparents struggled to provide food for every member, while she often went without so her children could eat. I heard stories about how she would travel with a sack of heavy goods down steep hills, to set up camp for the day, trying to sell just enough to buy groceries. And my dad told these stories to us, guilt ever-present in his voice, coated with the regret that is realized only years (and decades) after.

But the person my dad knew was not the same person I did. I could never identify with such a person, so selfless and protective. I never knew that person, because by the time she became my grandmother, she had transformed into a woman who possessed no traces of such qualities. She became a woman I grew to despise.

I never got to know my paternal grandmother in the ways I probably should have. I’ve only associated her with this being that caused pain and heartbreak everywhere she went, causing alienation among her own children. She was the woman who had emotionally tormented my own mother, without provocation or just cause. She was a bully. And I hated her for it.

And so earlier last week when I received news of her passing, I reacted in a way that confused the hell out of me.

Because I lack the eloquence to word this otherwise, I will simply say: I lost utter and complete composure. I broke down in ways that’s embarrassing and uncontrollable, mascara and snot running freely down my face.

I had lost all connection with this woman. This woman whose mental health declined so dramatically, that by the end, she was barely able to recognize me as a granddaughter.

So why did I feel such a loss? Why did my heart break so unexpectedly? And with such overwhelming impact?

My paternal grandmother and I were virtual strangers, especially in the last decade of her life. I saw her as a woman with too many faults, too many mistakes to overcome, and too much bad blood in our history.

But it is from her blood that gave me my life. It was from this woman that my dad came to existence. It was because of this woman my dad became my father. It was from her mistakes that he learned to avoid them. She was ultimately the motivation behind who he chose to become.

At the end, it was he who forgave her, defended and protected her, and accepted her despite her biggest mistakes. It was he who loved her unconditionally, and who will grieve for her the hardest.

It’s appropriate that I revisit the notion of being defined by the things you are not – themes I touched upon last Mother’s Day. I think it’s important to know who you are… but just as important to know who you are not. Thanks to my grandmother, my dad was able to distinguish everything he wanted to avoid as a parent, and prevent history from repeating.

Bad blood or good, it is ours. And though I’ve carried this bitterness inside me, I cannot hate you entirely, not without hating all the good that also came from you. I’m sorry I couldn’t find it in me to forgive you when it counted. And I’m even sorrier for the days we’ve lost, and the days we’ll never see.

And I hope you knew, deep down, that despite everything, you were loved.

I hope you’ve found peace, grandmother.