It’s that time of the year again. Streets are decorated with bright lights and stores are filled with red and green. Its the season of giving, celebration, and of course, the time spent with family. We go back to our roots, finding solitude by surrounding ourselves with those who love, welcome, and miss us. Sometimes, however, this attention directed to us become rather burdensome, especially when received in large, extended amounts.
Ever since leaving my parents and attending boarding school, family has become a rather abstract term for me. At school, I refer to my dorm people as family (more during high school, less now that I’m in college); during the winter season, like Thanksgiving and Christmas, my relatives in the States are considered family; when summer break comes, family is directed only to my parents.
I guess, regardless of external constraint, they can all be considered family at all times, but for me, that term is attached to specific circumstances. I do not feel like my relatives are family when I’m back in Korea and likewise, my parents feel too distant during school times to be family. And of course, friends can only be family to a certain extent. Especially with age, I have found my definitions to change, sometimes prioritizing one group of people more than the other. However, in every aspect of home and family, I have felt both comfort and discomfort.
Of course, depending on the type of family, the feelings involved may vary. However, as the days get colder, I tend to feel more annoyed than jolly, turning off my holiday spirits and letting my inner grinch loose.
That Grinch, for me personally, has always taken the form of a sickness. As I return home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, I would always go through a phase of illness, sometimes small like a stomach bug, or bigger, like the flu. Even though I eat cooked food, I would get food poisoning; even though I take vitamin Cs, I would get cold; and even though I rested, I would suffer through stomach pain and headaches. The first week back would always involve, sniffling, sneezing, and a lot of complaining.
As this became a pattern, my family would get annoyed at me, asking “what is with you and returning home that makes you sick?” I was never sure of the answer, but I knew it had to do with being with family. Every time I would go home, I felt as if there was a tension lifted from my shoulders replaced with a ball of pressure somewhere deep in my guts. For me, home is comfortable enough to put down some of the tension, but it is also the place where I am constantly anxious.
At home there is the mom who remembers every minuscule detail of her child, from her tastes to habits; here is the grandma who is full of complaints and sees only your flaws; and of course, the uncle who seems to never stop giving advice and telling his personal stories.
At my grandma’s house, none of the doors have locks, the walls are thin, making every conversation open to those outside the doors. Privacy is a rather obscure concept at home. Family, in that sense, is like this room with no boundaries. It’s easy sometimes because there is so much that is revealed to each other already, while, difficult because you cannot hide what you wish to conceal. Because we are heavily tied together by blood, or other various circumstances, it’s not weird to feel frustrated from time to time.
As humans, we are selfish. When its cold we wrap ourselves up in a blanket but as soon as we are warm again, we get rid of that extra layer. In some sense, we tend to treat our family like a blanket. While we miss the arms of our families, we can’t help feeling confined. We are annoyed when we are together. And yet, when we are all along again, we miss the warmth of a family dinner.
When I return back from break, on my ride to the airport, my group texts are filled with excitement to leave our families behind. “Even though, I hate school, I'm so excited to be back on campus.” While I respond with agreement, I can’t help but feel bittersweet. I know that those words are spoken with complete sincerity in the moment. But sooner or later, we will be missing home again.
