A letter to my mother

Mother,

With the way I feel right now, it’s a good thing for us both that I’m several states away from you, and you will never read this or find this blog.

I’m writing this because I’m angry. How could you do this to me? For years, since I was old enough to stand up and walk around. How could you twist my head and all the thoughts I think about myself? How could you do that? How?

Do you know that becuase of you I can’t be happy with anything I do? Do you know that I have trouble seeing the good things I do? I can’t allow myself to be happy with anything. I can’t allow myself to feel joy or pleasure because of you. Do you know how hard just getting gifts is for me? I always feel so inadequate, like I haven’t worked hard enough to have earned the gift.

You told me that everything had a price. Do you know how that twisted me? I’m always looking for the pricetag for everything. Gifts make me uncomfortable. I’m forever trying to do more, give more, be more, so that people will be happy, so that I could feel worthy enough to merit something, anything. I give so much to people that there’s nothing left for me, and I feel like I don’t deserve what I might have.

All my friends (and yes, I really do have friends, mother!) love and care for me, and it’s so hard for me to let them. It’s hard for me to feel like I deserve what they want me to have, and why? Because you told me that I wasn’t worth bothering with. God knows how many of them I’ve hurt or offended by believing what you told me.

I’ve let what you told me define my whole life since I was small. I’ve been afraid of joy and happiness and pleasure. I’ve been afraid to know my own thoughts on anything. I’ve been afraid to be who I really am. I wanted your approval. I wanted you to look at me and really see me. I wanted you to love me.

Well, no more. I will no longer allow you to run my life or my thoughts. I am in control of my life and my emotions. I am the one who will say what I feel or think or do from now on.

I wish I could hate you; I’m angry enough to do it. But it’s not worth it. Hating you would just mean I’m giving you more of my energy. I am going on into my own life on my terms.

Sincerely,

Me

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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.

What is this “Common Sense” you speak of?

My teacher asks me why I feel like life should have deadlines attached to it. It’s because my mom says things like what she said today.

The Lord of Lassitude’s current primary girlfriend is about six months pregnant with her third child, so she and my mom were trading birth stories. My mom was telling LoL’s gf about what happened when I was born (I was born early and was underweight and very sick for months), and how the doctors told my mom about all the things that would be wrong with me because I was so sick. LoL’s gf is tearing up while she’s listening; it’s a pretty dire story.

At the end of her recitation, my mom says, “But the doctors were wrong–she’s perfectly fine now. She doesn’t have any common sense, and the only thing she’s slow in is life!” And then she laughs.

Mind you–I’m sitting right there listening to this. That last sentence was unnecessary, and rude too.

Yes, I’ve heard the above my entire life, but I’ve never understood what’s meant by “common sense.” I won’t die or be unable to do what needs to be done if I’m left outside the house and family for a time. I know how to do basic things. I can feed myself, budget, shop effectively. I can dress myself, manage to get myself where I need to go with a minimum of fuss. I can talk to people. I know how to work; I’ve held jobs before. I know how to manage my time and my energy.

So what am I missing? What’s common sense? You have to have common sense to do all that, right?

As for being slow in life–okay, so I’m not married or popping out kids like my siblings. Shouldn’t she be glad of that? It’s like she’s just disgusted with me.

She doesn’t say that the Lord of Lassitude is slow in life; he lives here, just like me. The Lord of Lassitude has done some downright stupid–and rather costly–things, and yet she never says he has no common sense.

Could somebody explain it to me?

Well, Damn

Just when I thought that the drama with my parents was finally getting better, there’s this.

Now,  my parents are off work.  They spend 12 to 16 hours of their day off at the casino, every day. If they’re off work, that means that my mom can cook and take care of the house. Which means, ladies and gents, that I am off of house duty.

At least, so I thought.

My parents come in from their rigors of gaming and my mom looks in the sink. “I just knew you guys,” she said–looking directly at me– “would cook this. I guess I was wrong.”

“Cook what?” I ask.

She holds up a package of ground beef. “It was sitting here in the sink all this time. I just knew you guys (still staring right at me, even though Colonel Crazy and his wife were sitting on the couch)  would cook it.”

“If you had called, I would have, ” I said. “As it was, I didn’t even know it was there.”

She goes off and then my dad comes up, eyeing the ground beef. He, at least, is pretty direct. “Why didn’t you cook the ground beef?”

“I didn’t know it was there.”

“Yeah right. It was sitting in the sink all day; how could you not know?”

“You guys are here. That means I’m off. When I’m off, I don’t worry about dinner, so that means I don’t notice when things get taken out, or what happens to them.”

“But you could’ve cooked it,” my dad says.

“If you guys had given me a call to let me know there was something waiting to be cooked, I would have,” I said.  “But you didn’t, so I didn’t.”

Seriously? Just… seriously?  They know that they are going to want dinner when they get home, so they should either cook it themselves or ask me to cook, especially if there’s something thawing already!

They’re here, so that means I don’t have to worry about cooking. If I get hungry I can eat something; I have my own food, and I have money if I don’t want to eat my own food.

But to just assume I’m going to cook, knowing that they’d be coming home at some point (most likely already full since they eat at the casino anyway)? To just assume–no asking. They didn’t even call me, they just assumed.

I am totally pissed off about it.  I just want a bit of a break. They are home (meaning not working), so I figured no worries. Was that wrong? Why be mad at me because apparently my psychic hat is broken and I didn’t pick up that they took something out and wanted me to cook it?

Calgon, Take me Away!!

I kind of–not exploded, maybe went on a full boil–with my mom a couple hours ago.

We were coming in with groceries after a full day of being out and about. There’s a full sink of dishes and brownies just left out on the counter. My brothers weren’t there at the moment, but they had been there, and were coming back.

Let’s go with trusty script format from here.

Cast: Me, Keeper of the Holograms,  Volcano

Me (looking at the dishes): What’s the point of all the cleaning? Nothing, from the look of it.

KotH: What’s your problem?

Me: I’m highly annoyed.

KotH: Why? I do all this too–in fact, I wash more dishes than you do! You can’t get mad at the boys for this.

Me: Why can’t I? You should make them clean up.

KotH: I can’t make them clean up, just like I can’t make you.

Me: Yet I do clean up.

KotH: Only because I pay you. (Yes, she really said that).

Me: You think that’s the reason I do it? Ha! If the money was the reason, I’d demand more of it.  I do it because I don’t want to live in squalor. But I’m tired of getting no help. I clean and they come in and mess up–or worse, they bring their kids here and allow them to mess up. Do they clean it up? Do they even offer to clean it up before they see me about to do it or doing it? Do they even say thank you? No.

Volcano: I admit that they don’t. But I do! Sometimes.

Me: *charged silence and a look*

KotH: All I can do is talk to them. I can’t make them do anything.

Me: *charged silence and a longer look*

And scene.

She told me just now that she talked to the boys and they “said they’d do better.” My response? “Yeah, that’s what they say.

I just don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve backed off on the cleaning, but things just stay and nobody notices. I cleaned the refrigerator out two days ago. Do you know when it was cleaned last? A bit over a month ago–when I cleaned it after being unable to fit anything else in it. And what does my mom say when she noticed it was cleaned? “Oh, I was going to do that.”

!!!!

You could have cleaned it out at any point within the last month if you were going to do it, woman!

Can I turn them all into slugs or something? Please?