My Family on Park Avenue - Path-Train Ride from Jersey City, NJ

I never liked them.  Now I even sense they are on a downward trajectory, or at least stuck professionally.  But I can't let go of my family on Park Avenue in Manhattan.  They're clients I've had on and off for the past 13 years.  Years that have been lived out in dog time, at least for me, the sweet sufferer.

Of course, I brought this complex issue to the attention of my latest emotional coach [we don't call them "therapists" any more].  She's intuitive, focused and blunt:  They're your family and you're not completely ready to move on.

Well, this branch of the family on Park Avenue, just like the many other branches of the family that I attached to in my more co-dependent days, has nada to do with biology.  We share not a gene or a dysfunctional holiday together or even a hug.  They are my family because I needed the illusion of a smooth, successful, and sure of themselves group of people who seemingly represented the antithesis of my real family.

Ironically, the bunch of ethnic hustlers from Jersey City, New Jersey who gave me birth and crazy ideas about survival for the first 18 years of my life is very like the Park Avenue bunch.  For example, they are primarily smoke and mirrors about allegedly doing much better than average; have little to pass onto me in terms of professional or life wisdom; and use and abuse me. 

Yet, both sets of The Family made it into my cellular memory.  So, I asked the emotional coach how to get them all out of me. 

"Have the courage to move from the past into your now."  That's what she said.

My hunch is that by this Thanksgiving, I will be ready to do just that.  For the interim, I will remain a hostage of both Park Avenue in Manhattan and Bay Street in downtown Jersey City.  Not that any of those folks care or even take much note of me.  However, the great melodrama of what we imagine our families to be is too thrilling a roller-coaster ride to get off of, at least not any time soon.  Pain is pleasure.