My family has always been dysfunctional.  With a capital D.  Alcoholism has poisoned the blood of too many members to count.

We’ve always been dysfunctional, but now my family is actually broken.  Shattered into so many pieces it will probably never be put back together again.  Like we are puzzle pieces from all different puzzles thrown into a box together, and have spent years, most of our lives, trying to make the mis-matched pieces fit.

My family is broken.  My heart is broken.  I remind myself that a broken heart lets in more light and I cling to the hope that sometimes the best way to heal something is to break it.  On this Thanksgiving day, I’m trying to give thanks for the hope that with all the brokenness can come the breaking of patterns as well.  At least my own.

I was told, “Friends come and go but family is forever.”   At the time I thought it was a promise.  My mother has a picture of the four of us. . . her, me and my two brothers, that was taken forty-five years ago when she left my drunken, probably bi-polar, abusive father.  We really believed nothing could pull us apart.  That we would always be together.  Family forever, remember?

It makes me sad on this Thanksgiving that none of us are together.  Although that’s not true.  She’s with him.  She chose him.  She chose the one who leaves the family.  The one who picks who he loves.  And when he loves.

I honestly wish the best for each and every one of us.  Even though it seems the best way is to be apart.