Everytime when I visiti parents home it seems that don’t care I’m even there. They have their “sports routines”, which cannot be stopped. It happens to others too. Most topics revolt around what matches they had, with whom and watch matches in TV. Whenever they go to some holidays they look for sports hall for playing. They take part in exercises with coach, they play occasional games with 20+ friends.
The last time I had some talk, was that one time couple months ago when I brought the board game to improve our family integrity and communication skills, to get to know each other better, but that was once.
I feel that I I know them mostly on the surface level currently.
I grew up in a family of medical doctors, it came with its own set of similar challenges. Every problem discussion always revolved exclusively around solutions or practical harm reduction. I suspect God forbade the doctors from talking just for emotional support.
Every problem I ever had (completely normal ones included) was medicalized and pathologized, neatly classified and wrapped in a set of actionable instructions: “this is how you get better, this is how you allow it to get worse”.
I still remember coming home from school and sitting down at the dining table, eating my sausages with buckweed, while my dad, mom and older sister discuss methods and techniques to install a urethral catheter in a person with a broken phallus.
It wasn’t good or bad, it was just weird I guess. Hey, at least I am not scared of blood/trauma/desease, and in a some cases I believe it allowed me to stomach helping people in need, when other people would turn away out of disgust or disturbance.
I went to dinner at the house of a friend, and it was him, a computer prodigy; his brother, a roguish dyslexic adhd mechanical genius with a new project and new girl every month (thanks to his Red October Alec Baldwin face); their dad, an optical phenom with a novel method of building massive parabolic mirrors and collapsing telescopes with almost only the gear available in the standard home workshop. Their basement was a mishmash of engines in disrepair, computer stuff in various states of assembly, and plateglass stacks and a torch to heat it up. Their mom was a nurse, and that makes sense.
The dinner-table conversation was a rolling topic that moved from focus to focus, and was part knowledge-sharing, part discussion on methodology, part ‘this is how I almost died’ and part ‘eat your vegetables and keep that injury clean’. I could barely keep up, but it was absolutely fascinating.
For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you had to grow up eating dinner while hearing about broken dicks.
Thanks, but it wasn’t so bad. I have learned exactly two things from that conversation: 1 - one can brake a dick 2 - some injuries have fascinating stories attached to them
Overall, I wouldl rate this experience 8.5/10 - very enlightening and only mildly inappropriate.
Sausage was fine.