When Blood Is Thinner Than Water

A year or so ago, I wrote an article about people that can reveal themselves as toxic in one’s life. It is hard to draw a line between ourselves and others we consider friends. Then this happened to me.

*** UPDATES: After the results of 23andMe I am only 2.9% Native American on my paternal side. Meaning my grandfather’s lineage is solely French and Italian resulting in an error that occurred fifty years ago having his family believe they were Mohawk. But, this doesn’t change any of my views on the matter of defending Native American rights. ***

Circles of Hell

I do not enjoy talking about myself or my life. I like to keep my privacy within my house walls and a relatively tight circle of people. It is hard for me to accept what my life became and where I am heading. When blood is thinner than water it hurts my very life.

With that said, and this is where it gets trickier for me. I do not believe in a “higher purpose” or that “everything happens for a reason.” I do not think we are born with a predestined path to follow.

I have more of a logical mind when it comes to life, and my approach to it is, “it happened because it happened.” You can choose left or right, but that is your choice, not fate or destiny.

It doesn’t mean that once you are born because you have no purpose, there is no point in living. You choose to do with your life what you will and come what may you decide in the end if you matter or not. That is the beauty and cruelty of life…to me.

Dante’s Inferno says there are nine circles in Hell. Sometimes I believe that I might fall right to the bottom of it all. Nobody’s sinless, and my hands are no “whiter” than another. But what happened to me recently showed me that Hell is not as deep as one might think.

Six Feet Deep

To explain my pain and guilt, I must first say that I am an only child, and so is my mother. When she was pregnant with me at a young age, surprise-surprise, the father abandoned her. She lived with her parents, who ended up raising me so her life could continue, as it should have had without me.

Now that it’s out of the way after my grandparents passed, it hit me, “I’m sort of sort of orphan.” The pain is real even though my mother is alive and well. The hole is present and is not going away. One would think my mother would reach out to me, and she did for a short while, but then it turned to radio silent.

Her husband takes much space in her life. It is all right. I am not a child, nor am I a young adult. I am married and share a pretty house with the love of my life in the sticks, accompanied by our dog, Carey. But, I felt shun as if dead while alive. I am a convenience when wanted and cast in the shadow once my part is played.

Maybe I’m just digging my own grave without the knowledge of it. When blood is thinner than water, who’s to say it’s not what you should do, anyway?

Dig Deeper Creep

My mother’s husband, let’s call him Mr. X, was not a fan of mine. I’m in my mid-thirties. He met me I was maybe twenty-eight. I wear The Last Kingdom, Walt Disney, The Lion Guard, Tolkien, The Last Kingdom, and Assassin’s Creed clothing. I love talking about the latest medieval documentaries on History Hit, the latest BBC documentary about wildlife, and Nat Geo Wild‘s research about sharks.

I don’t like mentioning things because it sounds condescending or as if I’m showing off. I usually keep my mouth shut. I’m not someone who likes having the spotlight on their heads. I went to performing art schools for thirteen years and learned classical ballet. My friends often call me BBC Documentary, The Elf, and OCD.

My knowledge of wildlife, ancient history, and old literature is vast. When I was a kid, my grandmother did—for real—have me tested to know if I was crazy. I was not, but the results proved that my IQ was above average as my deduction showed quite developed for my age.

I’m indeed different from any other person in my family. Maybe when blood is thinner than water, you don’t belong anywhere.

A History Buffer

Many factors came into play. I am a lefty, and the brain must adapt at a young age in a world that seems to be acting in reverse. I grew up in art, so the brain develops skills younger than most.

I used to have fascinations surrounding nature, oceans, wildlife, fairy tales, and the unexplained. I watched shows from “Battle Castle” to “Blue Planet” and everything in between to learn about myths and legends.

One of my greatest passions is the Dark Ages because of the misconception we have surrounding that important era of humankind’s history. I’m talking from the 500s to the 1500s in Europe, where no land was shaped as we know them to be today.

He qualified me as a creep.
When blood is thinner than water, who gives a shyte?

Someone Needs A Therapist

Piling on with subjects that rubbed me the wrong way with Mr. X was his disdain for the French people. Although living in Québec, an Eastern French province in Canada, and despising French people, he married my mother, a Frenchwoman.

My grandfather was raised in French-born Mohawk. My grandmother was raised in English but learned French as an Acadian woman from the Maritime province of New Brunswick. My mother learned both languages, but as she grew older, she used less of her English and turned more French. When blood is thinner than water, DNA is all you have to call home.

I learned English at a young age, mostly on my own, and I’m married to an Englishman born in Quebec—he also knows how to speak, read and write French. I was raised not to judge anyone by their origin but to be curious about the world. I did not travel much, but I met people from everywhere.

Travel The World

Mr. X travelled a lot all of his life and ended up working for Air Canada, which permits him to travel even more. He never let an opportunity go to waste by reminding me that I am close-minded for not travelling. Sorry, I do not have the money to do so. Not everyone can decide one morning to go have dinner in England.

His misogynist tendencies showed when I noticed how much he would respect my husband’s opinion or another man but not the woman. My mother is submissive; I am not. My grandmother was an active feminist, and my grandfather taught me how a man should treat a woman: equally in every way. That was not what I witnessed.

Years In The Making

Every time seeing my mother meant seeing Mr. X, which triggered my PTSD, chronic anxiety, and the desire to enrol in the MMA to beat the shit out of someone. I have acute IBS, gluten, and lactose intolerances. I could not digest meat, and they made fun of me and did not miss one opportunity to point it out to everyone when a gathering would occur.

Mr. X took quite a malicious pleasure in poking the bear in me for years now. Every chance he got at reminding me I’m not traveling, “This one is special she can’t eat anything,” my clothing style, my interests, or that my family’s white trash. If you are not of his family or circle or English Canadian with a penis, he might not like you. That should be his warning label.

He hurt me for the last time a few days ago. My closest friends heard me for years, speaking of him driving me insane. He hated my grandpa—my Mufasa, not only because he was French but also because he was Native, but had no proof.

My husband and I gave him a wake-up call when telling him he had the DNA test done, and so did many of his sisters and brothers.

Side note: I do not need to prove shit to anyone regarding my bloodline. He wanted me to take the test to prove my grandpa was Native. Guess what? I need no proof; my grandpa’s word is enough for me.

When blood is thinner than water, no proof is requested. Being Native is not what would stop me from defending the rights of humans and trying to remain on the right side of history.

Every Choice Has A Price

It wasn’t enough to shit all over my grandfather’s bloodline or marry my mother as a trophy: you know, an Englishman marrying a French Native to prove he’s smarter than anyone else. He had to massacre the house that builds me and call it, “It’s just a pile of money for me. We do renovations for the value. I do not care about the house.”

He hates my French bloodline, clothes, mental/digestive problems, sex, and music. He hates that I don’t drink, don’t smoke, and my entire life. So, why in the nine circles of Hell did I let this man in my life? I did it for my mother. But it was enough. When blood is thinner than water, sometimes the best is to remain an outsider.

Mr. X says he likes to debate, but what’s a discussion if all one does is poke the bear? Also, what is a debate if the person cannot let you try to make your point for the life of themselves? But raise their voices over yours to make their point?

He said because I mentioned my IQ, my many certificates, and advanced studies, that I know what I’m talking about when it comes to French people and Native Americans, “You can’t accept that you can’t win.”

Whatever, I’m not going to fight for that. However, he dared to mention Native Americans, and my husband gave him a warning not to go there because I know the behind the scenes.

Two words in, and I walked away.

Run To The Hills

I packed up my stuff and left the house. I wished my mother walked away from the confrontation almost immediately to say I had to go and never come back. I took the decision for my sanity. Every time I stood in front of Mr. X was like I was skinned alive.

I could overlook many things, but my grandpa is my Mufasa, my King Triton. I will defend him until my last breath. Mr. X didn’t stop at the heating conversation or me being a “sore loser,” even though that wasn’t a debate. It was a lost cause from the beginning.

He walked outside and ordered me off the land that raised me. He insulted my intelligence, choice of clothing, and more than I was walking toward the car. My husband stopped him right after he gave me the finger. My mother stood there. I knew I was alone.

This Is Me

I wish my mother love, happiness, and joy for the rest of her days. I hope she realizes that her husband suffers from much insecurity and needs professional help in the anger department. Wanting to continually have “debates,” the incapability to recognize someone else’s argument to be valid even though that so-said person has a vagina, is a problem.

As of today, they are both blocked from my life. It is not a question of time because it is not reversible. One can only give a hand so many times before the person decides to drown. I can’t let my mother drag me down with her. Mr. X was slowly killing me. Now, I must live with my choice: no more of them in my life.

I will be okay.
When blood is thinner than water, all that is left is to find a bloodline to call your own.

Lex