Episode 74 – Roasting the Family…

Roasting the Family: A Journey in Self-Care…

Did you ever stop halfway through writing a blog post about your family and think, ‘Wait… am I actually healing, or have I just developed a talent for passive-aggressive comedy with a spiritual twist?‘

Because that’s where I’m at.

I’ve been writing these posts for a while now – Granny Frass piping up from the other side, Sir Percival dispensing smug feline wisdom from beyond the veil, Aunty Fan giving it socks in the afterlife. And of course, good old Bully and Fanny are unwitting stars of a series they didn’t audition for and most definitely would disapprove of.

It started innocently enough. A bit of humour to make sense of things. A way to get the truth out without setting anyone’s hair on fire (though the temptation was strong). At first, it felt like therapy. Then it felt like entertainment. And now… it feels like something else.

I Don’t Hate Them – I Never Did…

I want to be clear about this. I’ve never hated Bully or Fanny. Disappointed in them? Regularly. Wished they’d spontaneously develop empathy and/or a sudden, urgent need to join a silent monastery in Tibet? Absolutely. But hate? Nah. Too heavy.

Hate’s like carrying a backpack full of bricks while someone else skips along oblivious. I’ve always preferred to pack light.

But I do still live with the fallout of Bully’s nonsense. The consequences didn’t float away when he did. I’m still here, cleaning up the mess, dealing with the aftermath, and occasionally getting a spiritual elbow nudge from Granny Frass telling me, ‘Don’t let that eejit have the last word.‘

So I write.

Somewhere Between Petty and Profound…

The funny thing is, somewhere between calling out Bully’s new unnecessarily enormous truck and Fanny’s latest Big Pharma-sponsored wellness tip (‘You know, lavender oil can actually KILL YOU if you breathe it wrong‘ – thanks, Fanny), I started feeling… lighter.

Is that healing? Or just top-tier roast comedy?

I don’t know.

Maybe healing isn’t this grand, cinematic moment where you throw open the windows, light a sage bundle the size of a Christmas tree, and suddenly feel nothing but love and forgiveness. Maybe it’s smaller. Quieter. Less photogenic.

Maybe it’s just telling the truth. Out loud. In your own voice. And if that truth happens to be seasoned with sarcasm, spiritual sass, and the occasional cosmic cat, so be it.

Family Might Never Change – But I Can…

Let’s be honest: Bully’s still Bully. Fanny’s still Fanny. Their personal growth arcs are less of a steady climb and more of a flat-line. And the consequences of their choices still ripple out into my life.

But here’s what’s changed – me.

I’m not waiting for an apology. I’m not waiting for the family dynamic to magically improve. I’m not even waiting for them to get it. I’m out here finding humour in the madness, giving a platform to my dead grandmother and a smug spectral cat, and turning old wounds into punchlines.

And in the process, something’s shifting.

So, Have I Healed?

Maybe.
Or maybe I’m just the family’s unofficial roast master with a ghostly entourage and a WiFi connection.
Either way, it beats therapy bills.

And if nothing else, it makes for a bloody good blog post.

Message from Beyond:

‘Yer doing grand, pet. Some folk were put on this earth to test our patience, and some were put here to write about it. And if you can manage both while laughing at the eejits, you win. Carry on. And tell that cat to stop judging you he was no saint himself.’

– Granny Frass (circa somewhere in the great beyond, probably with a cup of tea)