I woke up this morning feeling like I didn’t want to be in this house, so I took myself off to the mall. Some big escape, huh? But I needed to be away.
I came home still feeling those hard, pounding emotional fists inside me. I’ve been trying to examine my life and the things I’ve done, and I’ve found myself on the low end of the “good person” meter. I called a friend who’s known me since childhood, and asked her if she thought I was a good person.
She told me yes in no uncertain terms, and asked me who’s been telling me that I’m not. That’s when everything came out. I told her about everything that’s been happening, and she was shocked and angry for me, though she’s known my family for decades.
She told me that she’d noticed for years that I was marginalized and had pressure put on me that wasn’t put on my siblings. She told me that I am a nicer person than she is; if she’d been in my situation, she said, she’d have told my parents off already and they’d have thrown her out. 🙂
She said it was good that she couldn’t get to where I live, because otherwise she’d be here, kicking ass and taking names.
I don’t know why she loves me, I really don’t.
She told me that I can’t let the bastards get me down, and then her boyfriend piped up on the phone and said that from where he’s sitting, I’m the only one who’s acting like an adult. “Being an adult doesn’t mean having a job,” he said. “A monkey can get and do a job. Being an adult means recognizing problems and handling them. You’re doing your damnedest to help them and hold them up. You’re handling your business–and theirs too. Be proud of yourself, girl–we are.”
I don’t know what I did to get such awesome folks in my life.