Today’s lesson: damned if you do and damned if you don’t

Today, the parental units went to check out apartments–excuse me, apartment. As in one. My mom told me earlier this week that she wanted to do it this weekend, so I mentioned it to her while we were out.

To save myself from unpleasantness, I’ve vowed to say nothing if/when I went along to look at apartments, so while they looked at a three bedroom, I was silent. I listened to the manager while he did his spiel, and while the parental units asked their questions.

After the tour was done, my mom asked me if I liked it. I shrugged.

She frowned. “You could have stayed at home for that.”

“You told me you wanted to look at apartments this weekend,” I said. “You asked me to remind you. I did what you asked. ”

In the car, my dad asked me if I liked the apartment.  I told him that I had no opinion; if he liked it, then good.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“Just what it says,” I said. “If you like it, good. I have no opinion. ”

We stopped at the grocery store and I got out to buy minutes for my cell phone. When I got back in the car, my mom said, “I just want you to know that I think your attitude is really ugly.”

“Ugly how?”

“You’re acting like we’re doing you some huge injustice.”

I blinked. “Saying that I have no opinion on an apartment–which is true–is acting like you’re doing me an injustice? How?”

“You could be more supportive,” my dad says.

“Nobody understands,” my mom says. “Nobody is trying to help. We’re already under a lot of stress; you’re just adding more.”

“How? By trying not to open up an argument by saying what I really think about this situation? I don’t want to argue with you about it; there’s no point in it.”

“But we’re not arguing!” my mom says.

“Not now, but if we start this, it’ll turn into one. I really don’t need that, and you don’t either, since you’re so stressed.”

“If you really cared, you’d stop acting like you’re 10, and try to understand what we’re going through. But you don’t care. All you see is that we have to move and you don’t want to,” my mom says.

I’m shaking my head now. Seems like I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.  “Look, I do understand what’s happening here. Moving sucks and nobody likes doing it, but you adjust. If it were only that, it would be fine. It’s not though, and I’m not going to open an argument with you by trying to tell you what it is.”  And I got out of the car.

= = =

Sigh. I know what it is. If I was sure they’d hear it and believe me, I’d tell them.

Why do they want to know my opinion at all? My opinions have never been considered in any decision they’ve made ever, so why should I offer one now? The only one they’ve ever considered is the Lord of Lassitude (in fact, my dad mentioned something about security, since he hopes nobody comes up to wherever they end up and does harm to LoL. Nothing wrong with wanting to be sure your kid is safe, but my dad knows very well what LoL is like; he knows that LoL attracts trouble like rotting meat attracts flies)–and you see how well that worked out.

As for being supportive, how can I be supportive of their stupidity? They’re having to look at apartments through their own fault. They’re considering paying rent that’s almost as much as the mortgage they’ve not paid in months–it’ll be about the same once you add in the bills they’ll still have to pay. If they can’t pay the mortgage, why do they think they’ll be able to pay the rent? The amount of money they bring in won’t change. Their outlay damn sure won’t change, since they refuse to budget. I can’t see how they’ll do it.

As far as what I understand, I understand that their dimwittery has resulted in their having to uproot and relocate the whole shooting match. I understand that because of their poor management skills, they have to downsize from a five bedroom house that has a dining room, a formal living room and a family room, to a three bedroom apartment that’s barely as large as said formal living room and family room put together. They’re going to have to pay for storage of all their extra stuff, which is yet another bill. I understand that they’re living in major denial, since they are totally sure that this will be the best thing that’s happened to them in the history of ever.

And yet, I’m the one with the bad attitude, since I can’t be rosy and bubbly about this outcome? Since I can’t put on blinders and be “supportive”? Since I will not mouth lies about how this move is great and will fix everything?

I don’t know. Am I wrong for feeling like this?

Arrgh! & other garbled sounds

I keep feeling like I failed here, somehow. I’ve been asking myself how I could have allowed things to get here. Is this happening because I did–or didn’t do–something? I feel like I fell asleep at the switch.

I look around at my parents and they seem fine. They’re not worried at all; there’s been no talk of what’s going to happen in a matter of weeks since the day my mom told me, earlier in the week. There’s been no attempts made at packing or buying boxes, or even trying to see about getting a storage unit for their stuff. They’re not even looking at those little “for rent” guides you can get at the grocery store!

Let’s contrast with me, shall we? Since I’ve known about this, I’ve been on the phone with various social service people, shelters. I’ve sent e-mails, read websites until my eyes were sore. My hands are cramped from writing things down: numbers, websites, instructions. I’ve been hunting about for a storage solution for my stuff (which I may have, since Colonel Crazy told me it would be all right for me to put my stuff in his storage unit). My dreams are haunted, my sleep broken. I’m worried, I’m scared. I’m trying to remember to eat regularly, but the thought of food makes my stomach fold in on itself. In my head is a timer, and it’s counting down. Every day there’s less time left, and I feel every lost second keenly.

It’s like my parents have forgotten. They went to the casino today, just like it was a normal day. How can they do that? That stupid casino is part of the reason we’re in this mess!

They said when I found out that there was no need to worry, that God will provide. I believe that God will provide, but I also believe that God is more apt to provide if you’re actually doing something to help yourself.

How can they just stand and watch their doom approach them? At least I’m trying to get out of the way of the thing that’s coming. If it ends up crushing me, at least I’ll know I put up a damn good fight before it did. They can’t even say that.

Okay, that’s all; I must go try to sleep.

My parents are blind & other ranting

I’m wondering right now if somehow I caused all this to happen. My mom says I’m not being supportive, and that’s true.  I can’t find anything in this situation to be supportive of, but just because I can’t find something, does it mean there’s really nothing there?

I feel angry and cast adrift and betrayed.  I don’t know why the betrayal, except that right now I was counting on them to hold down a place to live–at the very least–and they’ve shown me that they can’t even do that. I don’t care about whatever reasons they tell themselves; the fact remains that they did a moronic thing and now they’ve put us all in danger.

And it seems like social services just doesn’t care. I spent a lot of time on the phone today talking to various people and telling them that it’s very possible that by this time next month (regardless of what my blinder wearing parents think) I won’t have a place to live.  When I told them this they all asked, without fail: “Are you pregnant (and by that they mean in last trimester) or have minor children?” When I say no to both, they basically say, “Well, sorry for you! Bye!”

So what am I supposed to think? That I am only worthy of receiving aid in order to have a roof over my head if I’m pregnant and/or dragging some innocent kid(s) through this hell with me? I’m not saying that kids and pregnant women don’t deserve aid, but they aren’t the only people in the world here.

If I had a job and a place to live (or even just a car to live in) then I wouldn’t be calling about trying to get aid.

I feel like nobody cares. My own freaking parents don’t care and this is their fault. Oh, they keep saying “you will go where we go”, but how long will that last? Until the next time they decide they want to stop paying for the roof over our heads? Until the next time they decide that God will provide and so that means they don’t have to?  I’m sorry, but my faith in them is completely gone.

I will keep plugging with social services, though I’m rapidly losing hope.  I feel like I’m by myself out here.

Glowing–and growling–in the dark

WARNING: This post will be filled with rage-fueled hyperbole and maybe some bad language. It will probably not make sense. 

I am incandescent with rage right now.

Because of the colossal stupidity, idiocy, and–and pure WTF-ness of my parents, we are facing something that I saw coming last year–but they could have totally prevented, had they listened to fucking reason and not their demons of excess and irresponsibility.

This is totally THEIR fault, but what are they telling people about it? That they’re so tired, that they don’t want to struggle anymore.  That if they had more help (accompanying said statement with a scorching psychic blast, directed at yours truly) none of this would be happening. That the economy is bad and money is tight (note: both my parents are working and have jobs right now; money is tight because they don’t want to budget and restrict their activities!). Not once do they take even a smidgen of the blame.  No, the whole world is responsible for what’s happening, not anything that they’ve done–oh, surely not!

This news is not good news in any way, shape, or form, but how are they taking it? They are smiling! Smiling! Talking about how good it’s going to be now. How they can really start saving money! How everything is going to be so much better than everything ever!

What universe are they living in? I mean, really? Please, somebody tell me where the good is here.

[Insert incoherent screaming and screeching here]

And so, because of them, I have to find alternate arrangements ASAP.

Sigh. I need prayer, good thoughts, good energy, whatever. Please.

Word power

I have noticed something about the way I use the word love.

I love a lot of the people in my life, but there are only a few people I actually say the word to. I don’t know why that is; maybe it’s just me being contrary and old-fashioned enough not to want to bandy the word about.

I don’t know if that makes me a horrible person or not.

I love my family, but when I tell them that I love them, it feels like the words are just clanking down a dry well. Not that I don’t mean it, just that it feels false to say it to them. I don’t know how to explain it any better than that.

Maybe it’s because I don’t feel like my family loves me, and so to tell them my feelings strikes me wrong.

Monster and choice

“Being gay is a flaw. You can choose to sleep with the same sex.”

This is what the Keeper of the Holograms said today as we (well, I) were watching Monster, the movie about Aileen Wuornos, who killed seven men in Florida in 1989 and 1990. Ms. Wuornos was involved with a woman, and they showed them kissing each other and in bed together (no nudity). The movie was very well done, and I can see how Charlize Theron got the Best Actress Oscar for it; her portrayal of Ms. Wuornos was sensitive and believable.

Anyway, the Keeper of the Holograms and I are watching this movie, and we see when Ms. Wuornos meets her girlfriend. They had an intense make-out session against a building.

My mom asked, “So they’re lesbians?”

“I guess so,” I answered. “Everybody says that she (Wuornos) really loved that woman.”

“That’s nasty,” my mom said. “What happened in the woman’s life to turn her that way?”

“Couldn’t she have been born that way?” I asked.

“You’re not born that way,” my mom countered. “It’s a choice you make.”

I shook my head. “She killed these guys. She could have chosen not to. She’d been a prostitute since she was 13, and she could have chosen to do something else.  But this? This part of her was there from conception. She couldn’t choose to be different.”

“She could if she wanted,” was my mom’s counter.

“You like men. You fall in love with them.  Could you choose to fall in love with a woman?” I asked.

“Eew! No!” she said.

“If everyone around you was with women, if that’s all you saw, all you heard, could you do it fully and truly, knowing that your heart wasn’t in it? Knowing that it was men you were attracted to, deep down?”

She was quiet.

“That’s what it was like for her, I bet,” I said.

 

Maybe I didn’t state the case clearly enough, but it makes me angry to hear that people still think this way.

From idea to expression: bridging the gap

I’ve been trying to write a poem to one of my patrons. Nothing lofty; I’m not trying to be the next Homer. Just a simple few lines. Nothing’s coming. I’ve been trying for months, and nothing, nada, zip.

Not that I don’t have ideas. I wake up with ideas. I could probably write an ode to Frosted Flakes if I had to. So I wonder what the problem is here.

Maybe it’s not even a problem; maybe it’s not time for this particular piece to be written. Saying that doesn’t make me feel better about it. I’ve written pieces similar to what I want to write before with no problem.

I feel like it’s right there on the threshold of expression, but something is stopping it.

I have no idea what to do. Should I keep waiting for this block or whatever it is to go away, or should I just dive in and write?