Trying to Belong in a Family That Can’t Hear Me

Lately, I’ve been noticing something — especially with my cousin and my uncle.
Every time I make a light-hearted joke, it somehow turns into a problem.

Recently, they were saying how good my cousin used to be at football, and that he even kept a photo of himself in his pocket. I said something like,

“You carry that around just in case someone needs proof you played?”

It wasn’t meant to be cruel. It wasn’t even a serious dig.
But the reaction I got? Offended. Cold. Like I’d just stepped out of line.
And it made me think: maybe my jokes aren’t being received as jokes.

But then again, maybe they’re not just jokes.
Maybe they’re me trying to tell the truth in the only way I know how.
Maybe they’re little expressions of resentment that I haven’t even fully processed.

Because the reality is — my cousin has never once reached out to me. Not in my darkest moments. Not ever.
There’s no real relationship there. No effort. No warmth.
And yet somehow, when I make a passing joke, I’m the one who’s done something wrong.

Same thing with my uncle. He kept interrogating me:

“What are you doing with your life?”
“Where are you working?”
“What’s going on?”

Like he was waiting to catch me out.
Like my life was something he had the right to inspect.

And all I could say, over and over again, was:

“I’m doing really well, mate. Don’t worry about it.”

I didn’t snap. I didn’t lash out. But the truth?
He annoys the hell out of me. I hope I never see him again.
Not because I’m full of rage — but because I’m done explaining myself to people who don’t actually care.

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And maybe that’s the realisation beneath all of this:

I’ve spent years trying to belong in a family that doesn’t really see me.
Trying to connect with people who don’t want to hear me — not really.

They’re not interested in who I am.
They’re more invested in who they think I should be.
And when I step outside of that — with honesty, humour, emotion — I’m labelled as too much, too sensitive, too rude.

But I’m not any of those things.
I’m just done pretending.

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There is one cousin I’ve always felt a level of connection with.
Every time we’ve met, he’s the one I’ve talked to most. We’ve had things in common. We’ve shared a bit more than surface-level.
But he’s never reached out. Not once.
He’s ten years older than me, and it’s always felt like the invitation — if it were real — should’ve come from him. But it never did. Just more of the same:

“Yeah yeah, come up sometime.”

Empty invites. Words with no weight. I don’t have time for that anymore.
Now that I’ve experienced even a glimpse of real connection, I know the difference.
And I’m not chasing after shitty relationships, even if they’re family.

Honestly?
I’ve had better conversations — better connection — with strangers I meet walking my dog than I’ve ever had with my extended family. And that may be a sad truth, but it’s mine. And it’s honest.

Maybe I’ve never really belonged there.
Maybe I was never meant to.

But I belong here. In this truth.
And I’m not watering it down to keep anyone else comfortable.

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