Main Entry: dis…so…ci…a…tion
Pronunciation: (“)di-“sO-sE-‘A-sh&n, -shE-
Function: noun
Date: 1611
1 : the act or process of dissociating : the state of being dissociated : as (a): the process by which a chemical combination breaks up into simpler constituents; especially : one that results from the action of energy (as heat) on a gas or of a solvent on a dissolved substance (b): the separation of whole segments of the personality (as in multiple personality) or of discrete mental processes (as in the schizophrenias) from the mainstream of consciousness or of behavior. (Thank you, Merriam-Webster OnLine.)

I’ve been bummed out ever since visiting my Mom yesterday. This seems odd, really, since it was a pleasant enough visit complete with laughter and hugs. So I’ve spent the last half-day or so trying to figure out what’s wrong.

I think I’ve just about pinned it down. I’ve dissociated from the rest of the family, and now I’m feeling guilty about it. Not guilty enough to change my ways, mind you. This is my family we’re talking about. Here’s the brief run-down on what might have been my nuclear family but ended up merely atomic.

Mom – Susanne Johnson, or whatever her last name is now. She’s had a few, and I lost track a couple of husbands ago. When you get right down to it, she’s also changed the spelling of her first name on occasion. I inherited my addiction-prone personality directly from her, no doubt about it. She’s spent the past decade or so on the run from civilization and her family, preferring to live in quaint (I’m being nice, here) environs in the back of beyond. Riddle OR, Marblemount WA, Wrangel AK. You get the idea. In a weird sort of way, she’s settled down in the last few years. Her current marriage shows the distinct possibility of breaking all previous duration records, and she seems more at peace with herself and her past than ever before. Good for you, Mom.

Dad – Michael Kerezman, former promising-musician from NYC, former computer repair technician (from the days when one computer filled an entire floor in an office building), former journeyman plate stripper, dedicated hermit. It’s from him that I inherited both my urgent striving to be some kind of artist as well as the general indifference to doing much of anything about it. Oh yeah, I also got my opinionated nature from Dear Old Dad, now that I think about it. He’s a genius, probably, but he’s (dis)content to spend his remaining years in a cave in St. Johns, drinking Budweiser toasts to what might have been.

Sis – Christine Jo Anne Kerezman, a.k.a. Steeny. She’s in the Navy now, not to mention married to a fellow serviceperson. I haven’t met the guy, but I hope he’s a good person. That, and I hope he knows the secret of getting along with The World’s Most Perfect Person. Sis is one of those people who is always “more.” You know, if you complain about having a cold she’ll tell you about a worse one she had. If you made a mistake, she’ll loftily proclaim that she’d never make a similar mistake. Yes, she’s one of those. Mind you, she’s not actually a bad person. It’s just that she’s one of the most self-absorbed people I’ve ever met. (That’s saying something when you work in radio, I assure you.)

I won’t go into the roll-call of the other family members like my various grandparents, aunts and uncles. It would be tedious, depressing and unhealthy on several levels. Besides which, the perceived faults of my family members isn’t the issue.

The issue is instead my complete lack of concern, caring or any other positive human emotion when interacting with any of these people. Let’s be blunt: The only people I think of as my real family are Wendi and the kids. The others are just folks I happen to be related to and therefore must owe some sort of allegiance to.

Emotional blackmail is a phrase that leaps to mind. I don’t think I’ll pursue that thought right now, though.

Is it wrong that I just don’t care anymore? I’m serious. If I never see my parents again, I don’t think it’ll faze me one bit. I don’t cry at funerals, I don’t send birthday cards, I just don’t care.

Maybe I just reached the bottom of the box of familial concern and I’ve run out. Maybe I’m a bad person, but I really don’t think so. No matter what this little diatribe may look like, I’m not all that depressed or upset with myself. Moody I may be, but it hasn’t gotten to my old levels of despair. I generally credit my kids, my wife, my (precious few) friends and my work for getting me to a point where I can ask hard questions of myself without it spiralling down into a semi-suicidal mess.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to tidy up at the office and go home to play games with family and friends. Happy New Year, everybody. This past year hasn’t really been that bad. Let 2003 commence in the spirit of togetherness and determination.