22nd April - I have a Family ❤️

It is perhaps, with a bizarre 'twist' of fate that the name 'Oliver' appears on my birth certificate and passport. Because like the aforementioned words in quotation marks, I've always felt a little like a modern-day 'Oliver Twist'. The major difference is that I certainly wasn't at the back of the line when the gruel was being handed out, my porky nature dictates I was probably face down in the trough, mate. But for so many years, I never felt like I had a family. Am I using this diary entry as a sort of public therapy session? Perhaps. Recline back on the couch and I'll (stereotypically) remind you of my daddy issues.... 

You see, as I've mentioned before, my Mother & Father's relationship was dysfunctional to say the least. If you're new to the blog, head back and read previous entries. Otherwise, we'll continue. But that wasn't the only dysfunctional pairing in our tree. Let's start with Papi. I never had a 'Grandad' on this side as my Father was born as the result of a one nighter. Rumour had it, Gramp was some kind of sailor who was in town for the night and wanted to find a human port to home his swimmers after so long at sea. Unlike him, I never particularly warmed to the Grandmother on my Dad's side. Even from a young age, I was supremely aware that the intellect level on this side of the family would never match my own, which would render our future relations difficult. This isn't some form of grandiose snobbery, by the way. But before the term 'Chav' was coined, families whose drama was dependent on cigarettes, alcohol, and crime were known as 'ASBO Britain'. My Grandmother's side was the personification of this, and in inhibited the way I'd be able to speak to her, or culturally, the things I could discuss with this side of the family. How could I ever accurately declare the complexities of the deep thought-provoking topics which swirled in my own mind (even at such a young age), when most of this side of the family signed Christmas cards with the appearance of possessing Parkinson's disease, such was the appalling level of illiteracy running through 50% of my bloodline. I'm aware I'm really throwing my Father under the bus here if any of his family are reading (which I don't think they will be... Because I'm not sure they can). I'm not being 'mean' btw, I'm being fully genuine. I don't think they're 'bad' people. Their heart(s) are in the right place, but we just come from very different worlds. 

But despite my Father's protestations of his love for me, there were various moments throughout our lives when his actions would unfortunately speak louder than his words. Whether that was frequently beating my Mother in front of me, (who then, in turn, would beat me - *Starts singing 'The circle of Life' from The Lion King*) or perhaps the nail in the coffin of our love was the way he was was uncovered to have been living three secret lives for over a decade. My Mum found out via a 'Child Benefit' letter in his coat pocket that he'd secretly gone off and got married to another woman, and another woman, and had biologically - and metaphysically - fathered 4 children by 3 different mothers without us even knowing. I would imagine the existence of myself was also a shock to those other mothers after he'd had us all spinning on this carousel of lies for so long. Despite that, I tried to forge through some kind of repair with him heading through my teens and into my early 20s. Sure, he forgot the name of my own Son. Sure, when I was homeless and he took me in to sleep on his sofa for a weekend, he asked me to leave after one night because he 'wanted to have sex with his girlfriend without holding back 'cuz you're downstairs'. Sure, he asked me to pay his £1000 court costs after he slashed the car tyres of a love rival in a typically violent outburst after I'd already written a glowing character reference in the case of the defence for him (which kept him from serving a prison sentence), but he still claimed he loved me. At the time of writing, my sources suggest I have around 9 or 10 half-siblings from my Father. Only one of whom I've ever met, and 0 of whom I have any interest in, in all honesty. There comes a time, particularly as you get older, that you realise your worth and know when to walk away. There's no bitterness, no anger. Only a mature attitude which seeks a great, a more positive, a more peaceful, and ultimately harmonious future. I found the same inner strength a few year back when going through a 'friendship breakup' in which I was told "We're 10/10 friends but you just expect 11/10 because that's what you give to everyone else". The truth was, I was a 10/10, but they were 4/10 in many of the behaviours and actions displayed when it came to emphasising 'care' like a true friend would. There's no scorn in those words, only facts and realisation that in order to prosper, sometimes you all need to move on from one another. It's healthy.

On my Mum's side, yes, I was a domestic abuse victim for a very long time. Almost all my life. Physically, mentally, and relentlessly, ultimately as a result of her own untreated mental illnesses which were left too fester on account of a refusal to ever seek professional help for them. There were examples I can recall of my ears ringing for hours after unprovoked smacks around the head and face, and one particular recollection of deep wound marks in my arm from fingernails during the Summer of 2005 after one of these particular outbursts, at a time when I was helping out as a volunteer in the local church's Summer 'Holiday Camp'. Teens and adults would run a week-long set of fun activities, arts, crafts, and drama productions for kids under the age of 12. The volunteers were asked to wear short-sleeved red t-shirts to signify their role as a volunteer, and my Mother knew that questions would be asked when these wounds were gazed upon by the adults there. I was told to declare that a rabid local cat had attacked me and clawed their way down my arms. I told that lie, in the Church, in front of God, when asked by an old lady there called Maureen. As a Christian, it hurt me to do so. But I knew it was better than the alternative, which was to tell the truth and get taken into a care home, which would've been really far from convenient considering the fact my GCSEs were fast approaching. The sadness culmination of this continued behaviour led me to feel entirely estranged from my Mum, to the point where I admitted I didn't love her anymore. It was one of the saddest but truest conversations I've ever had to have, and I could see the pain it caused her, unintentionally. Despite that, we've rallied back and searched for the best remedies to our problems. Her mental illness is an anxiety and control disorder based on her home. It sounds bizarre and I'll not bother delving into a full explanation of it. But inside her house, she's a demon. Outside of it, she's one of the most relaxed, warm, and funniest person I know. It may sound hard for you to believe after the stories I headed this paragraph with, but she's not a bad person. She'd a good person with a bad mental illness, and that level of anxiety, and of illness, it can control people. It can take over them, and warp them into something they're not. We've discovered that to thrive, we must live apart, and so that has proved the case. We've rebuilt our friendship, I performed charity activities and raised over £1,000 after she was diagnosed with Cancer, and at time of writing, we're in the strongest place we could be together. 

Sadly, the same can't be said of her own ancestors. The one glowing light in our family tree was my Grandmother, who I never met. She died in 1977 when my own Mum was 12 years old. But every conversation I've heard at every gathering has only ever been attributed to the eternally glowing nature she possessed. Having met her brother shortly before he himself died in 2005, I can tell such words are entirely true. Ken was a gentle giant, warm and loving. Hugely personable. It's a regret of my life that he passed when he did, as he felt like the first true patriarchal figure I encountered. My Grandfather, on Mum's side, was a relatively cold man. Devoid of much emotion, robotic and set in his ways. I can never recall him telling me he loved me, or ever giving me a hug. He was 'old stool', very militant. A man's man. And boring beyond belief. He never went anywhere or did anything. He lived like a pauper, but was the richest member of our family by a long distance. Through this boring nature, he died with zero memories in his bank, but many thousands of pounds in his building society. After promising us all for so long that 'you'll prosper (financially) when I die', his final act of revenge was felt from beyond the grave when it transpired that the most organised, anal, and pedantic man in the world had 'forgotten to leave a will'. His entire estate was instead was passed down to his second wife, an Italian woman named Anna, who had spent much of her life in a 'slave' like role in the house, cooking and cleaning (their relationship reminded me of Jabba the Hutt and Princess Leia), adopting the fake-name of 'Nanny' to us children who had grown up knowing no better. But as soon as Grandad died, she wickedly changed towards the remaining Gables, telling my Mum & I to 'get out of the house' when we'd attempt to assist her, now in her disabled ways. She passed away within a few weeks of my Grandad's own death, and his entire estate was therefore passed down to her remaining family in Italy. A group of people we'd never met were now in possession of an entire life's work and savings of a man they'd never spoken to, and despite a 6-year legal battle via our family lawyer, we ended up with pittance of the overall total. Bare scraps, and it was hard to believe anything other than the cynical mindset that this had been Anna's intention all along after playing the finest poker-face for the best part of 25 years. 

It was therefore commonly acknowledged, that my Mum's distant relationship with her siblings through adulthood was caused by the complete breakdown in the family dynamic following my Nan's death in '77. Martin, her oldest brother, was estranged from the family for a quarter century after a row with my Grandad in the early 90s in which he banished him from the house forever. Nobody saw him or had any contact with him after that, and when my Mum's other siblings, Clive & Janet, discovered his death more than 10 years ago, they chose to keep it from her, which (rightfully) enraged her when it all emerged during the conclusion of the family battle for my Grandfather's estate in 2020. Clive, a would-be professional footballer, was - and is - fragile (mentally) to say the least. Helped in no small part by the death of his daughter in the opening hours of her life, and his Wife's birth to a Son diagnosed with lifelong cerebral palsy. Janet, on the other hand, has always possessed a wicked and spitefulness which perhaps translated as a portion of her own Father's cold nature, and came across as a jealousy/sibling rivalry - especially toward my Mum - though luckily, she moved to Norfolk so we never saw her much. So our checklist, now reads: No Siblings, no Cousins, no Uncles or Aunties, no Grandparents, and a highly strained relationship with my Parents. Can you see why I felt like Oliver Twist? 

My attempts to rebuild, came from a natural tendency to lead. If you can't inherit a great family, build one of your own, right? Throughout my life, in whatever setting (particularly friendship groups), I've just sort of fallen into this 'leader' role, where I orchestrate things, I organise things, I bring everyone together and try to keep the energy high and positive. My other half refers to me as a 'hype-man', on account of my ability to do this. I've never 'tried', it's just come 100% organically. Even in groups of 20-25, the first question asked would be, "Okay Jake, what's the plan?". It was the "captain of the football team" mentality, according to my friend George, who tried to assess why so many of our friends and acquaintances found themselves drawn to me during a certain period. Was I good looking? Partially. But no Brad Pitt. Did I have a Magic Mike body? Certainly not. So why were so many attracted my energy? "They all want to be with the caption of the football team", argued George, "It's a confidence and a status thing". First, I tried to build my own family in the 'old fashioned' way. But discovering that your first love has cheated on you with your best friend when you visit your poorly Mother at Christmas is a sure-fire way to put a dent into such attempts. I'm fully aware that my own Children may one day read this post and I'll always stick to my lifelong vow of never bad-mouthing their Mother in any sort of public forum, so we'll leave that there and instead focus on some of my best beloved WhatsApp groups. You see, immediately after the 2018/19 'friendship breakup' I spoke of earlier, I realised that what all great empires consist of is not a willingness to crumble and build from the rubble of the previous kingdom, but instead to completely rebirth the project like a phoenix from the ashes and surround yourself by like-minded individuals who actually share your same passions and interests, rather than 'forcing it' on account of somehow desperately trying to be similar, even when you know that - deep-down- you're not. The three lads I chose to embark on this new journey with are brothers to me, and to this very day our chat is booming. I've had notifications of such whilst even typing this. We've also managed to branch out and bring in female friend additions in other groups who have added a real wisdom and philosophical maturity not proceedings, one of whom who now affectionately refers to myself and my partner as her 'Adopted Mum & Dad'. 

Lastly, but most importantly, and this is where I originally intended the direction of this post to go, before I entered real-waffle City and allowed my fingers to let loose on the keyboard, I come to my current partner and the life we're building together. For so long, for obvious reasons, I had real issues with trust. It was never a case of 'IS this person going to betray me?', simply a case of 'WHEN?'. Because of this, I cut off for so long, emotionally. Around 7 years, in fact. I even once dumped a girl who home-baked me a lunchbox full of delicious gooey cookies, because she 'crossed the line' by displaying such an act of care and compassion. I was a full-on savage, to protect myself. This time, I knew it was different, instantly. But I'd need that adaption period to fully gain that level of trust and to allow myself to fall into the soul of another person who could show me that they did in fact have my best interests at heart. From this, comes the branch-out of meeting their family, and once again, I couldn't have been made to feel any more welcome from the start. But the concept felt 'alien' to me, I wasn't particularly used to genuine warmth and love and compassion from family members, which sounds fucking tragic when I say that out loud, but that's just how I felt. There was always this suspicious undertone of when someone was nice to me of like, "Hmmm, what do they want from me then?". The first person to help me cross this line was my partner's Grandma, who just oozed with that same genuine soulfulness in the same manner which people had described my own Grandma's personality to me. I felt like I finally had a Nan, and it felt heart-burstingly wholesome. 

Last weekend, we ended up gathered round a table, enjoying a family meal, with my partner, and her Father, her Step-Mum, her Grandad, and her Grandma, and I use that term 'family meal' because some penny really just dropped inside of me for the first time. This was MY family, this IS my family. We might not share blood, but maybe family - like house music - is a FEELING, and I finally FEEL it. Whenever we'd leave a visit from her Nanny & Grandad's house, we'd say goodbye and they'd shout 'Love you both' from the door. Adorable, right? I never said it back, because I'm an incredibly REAL kind of person. I'm madly truthful (often to my own detriment), and integrity and honour - and authenticity, especially - are so important to me. I hate fakery, and did I really love them, from the bottom of my heart? Would I stand in front of a bullet for them? I wasn't sure. I cared for them, deeply. All of them. Her father and his partner, too. I had huge respect for them. Massive amounts of warmth, and all of those positive feelings. But LOVE is the biggest word in our vocabulary and I don't take it lightly. In my entire life, I've 'loved' 5 people. That's it. My mother, (once upon a time) the mother of my children, my partner now, and my two Sons. And that's where I draw the line. Because the more you use that word, so special and so sacred, the more you devalue it. So I'd say things like "Lovely to see you... All the best... Take care... See you again soon" amid the jamboree of pleasantries being exchanged in this verbal cloud of farewells. But on Sunday, I said what I felt. I don't know if anyone picked up on it. But I said "Love you too", and I meant it. My walls of trust are broken down. I'm here and I'm open, I'm vulnerable emotionally. The biological record books will my beloved Sons. They are my family. They mean more to me than life itself. And of course, my Mother. But beyond that, I have my partner, and her mother, and her husband, and their daughter, and her father, and his wife, and her grandad and her grandma, and all of the people who care so much about me and I care so much about them. I have Gareth, and Finn. Or Fudgie, and Lewis. They are my brothers. I have Sophie, who is my sister. These are my families....

.... I have a family.