Catholic Guilt and Other Inherited Delusions
*
Both come with generational trauma and wine.
Robert’s voice cut through the tension as we merged onto the highway, his frustration bleeding into the calm tone he usually reserved for me.
“You hate your parents, Brianna. Why do we keep doing this?”
He wasn’t wrong. I did hate them. Being around my family drained me in ways I couldn’t easily explain.
Every visit felt like stepping onto a battlefield.
Arguments with my mother were inevitable—sometimes loud and fiery, others quiet and cutting.
Whether we clashed over my career, my choices, or my failure to meet her impossible expectations, the result was always the same.
If I wasn’t fighting, I withdrew, retreating until the chaos burned out.
Either way, I left feeling hollow, like someone had scooped out a piece of me and tossed it aside.
“I don’t know,” I murmured, watching the trees blur past the window. “Because I’m not as strong as you.”
The words escaped before I could stop them—raw and unguarded. Robert was stronger than I was. He had taken my suggestion and gone “No Contact” with his abusive family after a hard few months. However, I had always refused to do the same. Shame settled heavily in my chest.
Robert gently squeezed my hand, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles across my skin. “Bree, that’s just the Catholic guilt talking. You could stand up to your mother, and nothing would happen.”
I wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t.
It wasn’t just guilt that kept me tethered to my family; it was obligation.
Unspoken rules bound me to them like shackles.
I felt responsible for holding together something irreparably broken.
Walking away didn’t just seem difficult—it felt impossible.
Somehow, I had convinced myself that their dysfunction was mine to carry.
I forced a weak smile and nodded, though the tight knot in my chest refused to loosen.
When we pulled into my parents’ driveway, I slipped on the familiar mask I wore for every visit.
“I’m fine,” I said, mostly to myself. The automatic smile followed, hollow and well-rehearsed.
The moment we stepped inside, the metaphorical circus slammed into me like a tidal wave.
The shrieks of children, laughter clashing with the blaring TV, and the thick stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer all hit simultaneously.
It clung to everything—the air, the furniture, the walls.
This house was the world I grew up in: a place where silence didn’t exist and chaos was king.
Beside me, Robert stiffened, his discomfort obvious. His family had been the opposite—silent and cold, their abuse hidden behind forced smiles and closed doors. His father had mastered the role of the perfect parent for outsiders, while Robert and his siblings endured quiet suffering.
“Bree Boo, hand me that bottle.” My mother’s singsong voice cut through the noise, grating against the chaos.
I grabbed the cheap bottle of wine she always drank, avoiding her eyes as I passed it to her.
She didn’t look at me either, but her silent judgment settled heavily between us.
Since her recovery from breast cancer, we had reached a truce—cold and distant but free of explosions.
We didn’t like each other, but at least we’d stopped tearing each other apart.
Exhaustion, I guessed, had made peace easier.
“When are you two going to have a baby? Five years married, no grandchildren. It’s time,” she said, her tone thick with expectation as if my body were hers.
Robert glanced at me, waiting for my cue.
“Well, Martha,” he said smoothly, “I’m finishing school. Once we’ve settled down, we’ll think about it.”
A loud crash erupted upstairs, followed by my nieces’ and nephews’ laughter and my brother Jason’s booming threats. I stared at the ceiling, wondering how anyone could think bringing a child into this bedlam was a good idea.
Nevertheless, the dysfunction didn’t faze my mother.
“Bree, you know, having children is the whole point of marriage. It’s what you’re supposed to do.”
I poured myself a generous glass of wine, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
“Like Robert said, we’ll talk about it. Until then, I’ll keep being the family’s disappointment.”
Her face tightened, and I braced for the inevitable argument. But instead, she sighed, her shoulders slumping beneath the weight of worn-out expectations.
“I don’t think you’re a disappointment, Bree. I just expected more from you.”
The words, though softer than usual, struck like a punch. I blinked, startled by the shift. Braced for war, I found myself disarmed.
“I’m doing the best I can,” I muttered, feeling vulnerable beneath her gaze.
Without warning, she pulled me into a hug.
My body froze, shock rooting me in place.
My mother didn’t hug me. My instincts screamed manipulation—another tactic to bind me with guilt.
But I let her hold me, the old, aching need for her approval stirring despite myself.
I sank into the embrace for a fleeting moment, foolishly hoping it meant something real.
I knew better.
When she let go, I stepped back quickly, avoiding her eyes. Robert raised his eyebrows, mirroring my confusion. I shrugged and took a long sip of wine, dulling the sharp edges of the moment.
The rest of the visit blurred with strained conversations and forced smiles. My mother shifted her attention to Robert.
“Do you even understand what she’s talking about with all this technology stuff?” she asked, her voice now syrupy with forced warmth.
Robert chuckled, playing along. “Honestly? Most of it goes over my head.”
She smiled, taking his hand with theatrical sweetness.
“You’re a good man,” she cooed. “She’s lucky to have you.”
I drained the last of my wine, grateful for its numbing effect. For a moment, I let myself pretend we were a typical family sitting down for dinner. The dysfunction blurred into something almost charming, like a scene from a dark sitcom.
When we finally left, relief washed over me. The kids were distracted, and my mother, too drunk to notice, didn’t stop us. I kissed everyone goodbye and practically ran to the car.
As we drove home, the tension melted from my body, only to be replaced by guilt. The wine had worn off, taking the illusion of peace with it. I waited for Robert to say what I always feared he was thinking.
Instead, he surprised me.
“It wasn’t that bad,” he said softly. “I’ve seen worse.”
I snorted. “You win the trauma Olympics. Congratulations.”
He laughed, the sound slicing through the leftover tension.
“Do you think Glenda is pregnant?”
I laughed at his mention of Matt’s wife despite how I felt.
“Probably.”
Silence settled, briefly comfortable.
Then Robert asked gently, “Why do you keep going back, Bree?”
I leaned my forehead against the cool window, watching the streetlights blur by.
“Because pretending makes it easier. Until it doesn’t.”
He sighed but didn’t press. He’d done the hard work—therapy, cutting ties, moving on. I was still stuck, clinging to the fantasy that things could change and that my mother wouldn’t steal from me again. That my family wasn’t the wreck I knew it was.
“You can’t pretend them away, Bree,” he said, without judgment.
I smiled faintly. “No. But it won’t stop me from trying.”
He grinned, shaking his head.
“You know, you could just lie. Say we’re going on vacation or something.”
The suggestion was absurd—and oddly tempting. I’d spent years lying to them, to myself. Lying outright would be the next logical step.
“How about I say I died in a tragic boating accident?”
Robert burst out laughing, and the weight on my chest eased just a little for the first time that day.