The last thing I wanted to feel on the night before a flight was post-nasal drip. I was overly optimistic to think I could last four weeks back home without wear and tear.
But I had stopped drinking my daily dose of orange juice the moment I got home. With that line of defense down, it was only a matter of time before the stress of dealing with family drama took its toll.
I have a cold.
It seems pretty mild at this point. On Tuesday night, I took two doses of Nyquil — one at 11 p.m., another at 5 a.m. on Wednesday — and I slept at various points throughout Wednesday. I had hoped to use that day as some semblance of a vacation day. Go to the beach, take a drive — something remotely tourist-y to salvage what was essentially a shit trip.
It was not to be.
People always think visiting family in Hawaiʻi resembles some sort of exotic vacation. Not so with my 家族. That I manage to fly back without having done bodily harm to myself or to others is a display of utmost restraint.
For those last few days, I had to play family psychologist and communication facilitator, a role I didn’t realize I didn’t miss until I was called upon to perform it. Somehow by virtue of my personality, I’m the person everyone could turn to. Even my dad.
I don’t get it.
How did I get stuck with ability to get along with everyone in a household where no one gets along?
It sucks to think I’m the only sane member of my family. It would suck even more if everyone else thought the same thing.