Writing this is going to be difficult, because writing about something means acknowledging, if not fully accepting it. I am only sharing this in hopes that maybe someone being the antisocial adolescent tyrant that I was will turn around.
My "adoptive," adorable, feline-friendly grandparents, John and Emilia, are suffering.
My Grandma--my delightfully stubborn, proudly French, Aristocats-adoring, outspoken to unintentionally hilarious proportions Grandma--has been hospitalized. She's had problems with her knees and legs for the past few years. To add insult to literal injury, her cocktail of medicines recently left her perpetually disoriented, confused, and frightened.
My Grandpa--my doting, WWII veteran, ear-wiggling, marinara-loving, outspoken to intentionally hilarious proportions Grandpa--is no longer able to take care of my Grandma. When my parents went to visit them this past weekend, he was sobbing at her state, to the point of making himself sick. Once able to literally and figuratively run circles around my brothers and me, my Grandpa was coughing and crying, and in recent years has been visibly much more tired--his build and energy decreasing, his eyes growing puffier and darker with each now-rare visit.
Their own and only son by blood is an accomplished, wealthy painter. He lives in Florida with his wife, a psychologist. When my father called Grandpa's by-birth son, his wife answered. She told my father that they were building a house in Boston. She told my father that they offered to help my grandparents, but that my grandparents refused.
My father told her that sometimes priorities need shifting.
She hung up.
Like everything else, I am making it into something about me, me, around which the entire fucking world revolves. I am guilt-ridden to devastating proportions, and few things hurt more than seeing someone I love suffer--let alone two-fold.
I remember when they bought me what was actually a lovely dress when I was little for Easter.
I remember screaming and bitching because it wasn't a toy.
I remember playing hide-and-seek at their house when I was little and always hiding in their hall closet.
I remember my Grandpa always pretending he didn't know I was there.
I remember being sprawled on their hardwood floor with an Oliver and Company coloring book and more crayons than I could count.
I remember scolding my heavily-French-accented Grandma for not saying "brown" in a way I could understand.
I remember Grandpa constantly teasing me when I purchased my first tube of red lipstick in fifth grade (I got an early start), referring to me as "Hot Lips Jessica" for months.
I remember locking myself in my room and writing in my diary on how everyone was like, sooooo immature.
I remember my Mommy doll. I remember endless games of Connect Four.
I remember being a complete, antisocial ingrate from the time I was 15 to about, oh, less than a year ago.
I remember it all, and I took it all for granted.
I need to stop alienating everyone who loves me unconditionally to chase fleeting romantic pipedreams.
I need to get over myself.
I can't completely verbalize how heartbreaking this is.
*By Jessica, who is.