Worst fucking weekend ever. I mean, Jesus Fucking Christ people, what is your collective affiliated problem? For anyone who ever wandered by here, it's clearly bloody apparent I can and will be as loopy as a mad hatter. I am also, as a human being, with a predisposition to making mistakes of supremely high idiocy. I have my own free will, yes, my own free moral choice, so, seriously, give me a fucking break.
All this week my mother rabbits on about pasta, about spaghetti. Turns out, when we get to IKEA to get food, and she can't make up her mind, and I buy her pasta, she completely bloody freaks! Ok, so, pasta isn't her favourite food, but, fuck, this pithy, oh, you decide, make a decision for me, I don't know, I'm worried about money excuse is getting old, and how. Last night, God fucking damn it, it's late, and her leg is sore so I try to do the washing up so she can go to bed. She's making a grump about it, and then, oh fuck, it's a trap. One of those bloody fucking traps my grandma plays on us all the time for sympathy and attention. I start the washing up and I get this bloody freaking tirade, about how I don't do shit, about how ungrateful I am, about how she cooked sticky frickin chicken and how I didn't say thank you. So what, I have time off, I spent some time playing Pokémon! They went out, I let them go out to the drive in movie, and they get home, ok, so, my bad, I didn't clean up after dinner, but, fuck, did I deserve that? Like this Cesar Milan she adores so much. Apparently, I'm a fucking dog, and I damn well live in the moment. I have a memory of the past, and of social niceties, but I don't try to play games as well as I used to, I inevitably fall into traps because I'm always so damned busy balancing myself out and resisting the urge to draw metaphorical blood. Do you think it's funny, shouting at me? Do you? Would you like to push me over the edge?!
So I wander out, it's like, two in the morning at this point, and I wander out to the backyard. And, oh fuck, I sit on the outside swing for two hours, two whole damn fucking hours in the blithely freezing cold. No, apparently, no one missed me, but it's a different situation isn't it? If you lose a child at a supermarket, you fucking damn well give a shit. If your own kid disappears for two hours inside a tiny house, you couldn't care less. Of course, it's not like it was any better when I got back inside, after being locked out, and went to bed.
Then this morning, she pretends like nothing happened! More bad words because I didn't get to church, at all, and was serving, and then we go out for lunch. And then, it's all fine, all laughter and drooling happiness and, fuck. So my brother has bought a new cupboard, and suddenly, before he builds it up, she has this revelation, they could switch rooms! Oh, fuck, it's not like I haven't been asking for some curtains, asking for some help with my room, damn, fucking, damn, I have been asking, and, so what, I wasn't forceful, but, Jesus, who can be forceful when I nearly executed my mind in going through a near term in a place I clearly didn't belong. So she goes straight to him, straight to him, and he's delighted.
Thinking it through without emotion, it is logical that he needs a bigger room, because his current room is cramped. Thinking it through illogically, he now gets triple the storage space I have, and still a door. While I get left with this damned fucking adjoining room, and no damned freaking idea how to make curtains.
And, oh blithering stupidity, I hate myself. I have been, shouted at, rumpled, for the past two days, and, the black hole is opening, it's fucking, it's whirling. I sit here, and I think I can do so much, and still, I want to dissolve in tears. Last night was the closest thing I have come to crying in months, but I didn't, no, not really. I just bit down on my thumb and wished it away until the emotion died down and the shivering took over. And still, if I could, just have niceness, if people could just not irk me when it's obvious I would be irked at what they were doing, it would be easy!
But no, it isn't. When I was twelve I made a choice, and while the choice of briefly killing emotions held me through until I could be reasonable again, while I may feel them now, that shut down mechanism is still here. Still here, always here, saving me from the full brunt of depression when it gets too hard.
I don't wish to change, because I'm finally mostly happy with who I am. But, in some way, I can see the future, I know the realities of my life, my place in society. I know, right now, that the future of one brother is not good, is poor health and laziness, and, oh fuck, I hate him, so much, sometimes. Because I can see his future, and it is bad, it is so bad, so, all I see is that, all I respond to is that. And the other one, he can be pig headed, he is strong willed and domineering, of course, he's a man. He's the better of the two, but still, he is, different, and once he gets going, it's not often that he stops. Very bull at the gate, sharp horns and nice words, but, impatient, and full of jubilant arrogant youthfulness.
I hoped sleep would reset me, but not today. I want to cry and cry and cry, but I can't, I can't seem to, because the automatic response is to push it damn well back down. Writing saved me, writing helped save me also, but again, the awful side of that choice is revealed. I am not that excellent in speaking my mind, verbally speaking it as I could write it, the translation doesn't come out right, and emotions get in the way. Stupid emotions, get in the way, and I choke up, because when I try to be honest, I get shouted down, when I try to be honest, my brain can't do it. Yes when I write, I can say all this. And my mother says, oh, no one will ever read what you write, why don't you speak honestly to us, and all I can do is avert my eyes and turn my head. Wouldn't anyone else be ashamed of not being able to speak properly when they can write so well.
No, I achieve not much this past week, and it pains me. I desperately need some non-judgemental human connection, but I find none here, I find none in friends either, because what friends?! Really, I don't have a confidant. It's why I find so much solace in writing as two middle aged widowers I suppose. Ecklie killed emotion and was successful, more so than I was, and Sid, he triumphed over depression, more so than I have, sometimes, I think.
I learned a lot from Notre Dame, and I am trying, sometimes, very hard to let go of my ill thoughts and all this hate I feel. But, it's still there, the prickle at the back of my neck, the heat at the back of my neck that I identify as the feeling of OCD, of, swirling squished emotions and damaged thoughts. For every logical way to think about something, there is another side, and I never feel write doing either one. I either sacrifice my desires for the better good of others, or I grab what I want at their expense. And how is that fair to anyone? Them or me? Either way, I do something wrong, whether against my own self worth, or that of another person.
It is a funny thing, listening to people talk about those with depression, those who cut and injure, those who strangle themselves. Because, I'm a writer, fuck it, I can write those things, I have experienced a variation of those things, but, as is the nature of my disease, my condition, I don't outwardly express it. I simply squish it down, unhealthy as it may be, and move on. Stoic, perhaps, a little bit, but it's the best way, for me, to be functional.
If I won a million dollars tomorrow, I'd build a fence for my mother. I’d try to get another story on our house, and get some help so she wouldn't be running herself ragged all the time. Then, I'd get my own place, and I'd sit there, I'd spend little and try and see my way through.
The thing is, there is no escaping this place. For every amount of hate, there's periods of love. There comes that duality thing again. I love them when they are pleasant, but the moment they strike out, I shut down. On one hand, people should always generally try to be good to each other, and on the other, you stupid fucking girl, you know there is no utopia. I know, for love there is hate, for well wishes there is ill thought. It is inevitable, like stocks, that happiness must sometimes fall and anger reign supreme.
It's just, when it gets like this, when we're reminded that we are poor, that we have our own problems, I am no longer the good me or the reasonable me. I'm the twelve year old me who has shut down her emotions. With her basic wants and irrelevant needs, who latches onto the shiny in hopes that it will pull her through.
My brother got angry with me today, and swore at me and raged at me and asked me why I fucking quit forensics, why I fucking quit Notre Dame. He said what the fuck are you going to do with writing? What the fuck are you going to do with creative writing, it's so useless.
I feel useless. I hate it, but it's a storm, and, what can I do but to wait it out? That same brother, his mere presence annoys me, because I know his future and it looks bleak. Then, today, there was this illustrious chance, to move rooms and get a door and be able to hide away completely when I am sad and angry. Except my brother took it, my brother fucking took it. It shined in front of my face, but no one ever offered it to me. I should be happy he'll have more room, because he works hard and he deserves it, but the selfish part of me remains. Why not me? Curtains aren't going to help when the bad future brother sits in the other room, because, funnily enough, the empathic part of me picks up on his very being, and, and, I can't get away. His bleak future leaks off him like a tide and tries to drown me, and I sit here, metres away from him, and it's drowning me. Oh pity, it drowns me, but I am inadequate, and I can't speak my mind, I can't only type, and in typing I am best. But in typing, there is nothing, it doesn't change, and so, what happens to the anger? Hmm, I squash it, I kill it, I avert my eyes and down my head because really, I hate conflict.
If I won a million dollars tomorrow, I'd but a room, somewhere, where it was quiet and peaceful. There is no quiet and peaceful, no hiding, in a room with no doors. But I'm a middle class citizen, with no job, with a sick mother, with no money, no assets like some of my past school friends. Likelihood, my mother will never get her fence, my mother will never get her second story, and there will not be peace and quiet for me for a long, long time.
Recently I've become fascinated with the idea of single children. Something in a feminist sci fi novel I read made the point of, perhaps it would be a more civilised society if grandpa, grandma, mother, father, aunt, uncle, all concentrated on one child of the family, if the next generation considered of one child only. Sadly, sometimes I think I could agree. Reading this eco feminist stuff, God, it pains me, because I'm starting to see reality for a lot more than I used to.
*Sigh.* Tch, tch, stupid girl. Oh well, time to put on a pretence. If I pretend long enough, I usually absorb up the emotion I'm pretending to feel, and it gets better. I've begun to hate speaking though, and sometimes, I wish I were mute, because whatever I say, so often, doesn't have the desired consequence, and simply, goes nowhere.
Yet if I act mute towards them, which I already do, often enough, I am accused of ignorance and of selfishness, and it gets me nowhere. But neither does speaking, so, really, is there a right path at all. Right now, I think fucking not.
Yesterday, I talked to my brother, I got angry and I talked to him about how my mother had annoyed me, how I was sorry about having angered her. I let them go out last night, just them two, alone, and she comes home pissed off at me. Ok, I'm sorry, I should have done more. But, you know what he did? All the things I said to him yesterday afternoon, in presumed confidence, he said to my mother, while they were out last night. She practically quoted them to me verbatim. So, not only has speaking my mind got me into trouble, but apparently, my brother, as he is known to do, went straight to my mother the moment he was alone, and said every part of my angry words to her. So, now, who do I have? I still have no confidant, and now, I don't trust him anymore. I don't want to speak to him anymore, because anything I say, just gets parroted back to my mother. Yet not speaking to them, also gets me in trouble, so there is, what option? There is no fucking option.
I briefly entertained the thought of joining a nunnery today and taking a vow of silence. As a writer, I am really fucking sick of having to speak all the time, and having everything, every single thing, so very often, come out wrong.