Work and life responsibilities are trying to ruin everything (big surprise).
I will now continue with yesterday’s list. I know what I just brought up.
Just because something has been happening for years, doesn’t mean it still doesn’t make you sad every single day. Let’s see, I haven’t seen my mother in a year and 8 months. The one time I did see her, it was the few times I visited her in a hospital near me when she had extensive orthopedic surgery and her recovery was like 2 weeks. My dad it’s been even longer, like over two years now. But if you don’t count those times in the hospital, which I mean…bleh….what awful memories hospital stays and visits are….it’s been over two years for my mom too. We communicate, because like I’ve said we can email one another because my dad has no possible way to control or monitor what she does on her work email. I’m glad she’s able to email me every day. That is not something my job would tolerate if I ever got caught doing it. Which, I can email from my home computer and phone, so it’s not a real issue for me. But yeah, for over two years, I’ve only spoken to my mom via email. We can’t talk on the phone, at home the reason should be fairly obvious. That was one of my father’s favorite things, eavesdropping on phone conversation. He’s really obvious about it too. He’ll mute the TV while he’s watching it if he hears my mom on the phone in the other room. Or he’ll find some very thin pretext to come into the room she’s in. OR he’ll just start talking to her while she’s talking on the phone, needing to know right then whom she was speaking to. He also had a deep obsession (once they came about) with checking the call history of her cell phone, commenting when there was a number that wasn’t saved or recognizable to him. He made sure she knew he did this too. Always. He also made sure I knew he’d go through my brother’s and my room’s whenever the mood took him. I never remember him finding anything in mine, but more than once he’d helped himself to the contents of my piggy bank. To be honest, he DID always put an IOU in the $’s place….but….still….it was KIND OF some bullshit that I couldn’t even keep money in my piggy bank if I wanted. Like, I should KNOW I had to hide it, it was MY fault for leaving it somewhere he could take it from. Yeah. Pretty accurate description of a lot of his attitudes towards things. I’ve had the same piggy bank my entire life. It was purchased at the hospital gift shop the day I’d been born. I still have it, wrapped heavily in bubbly wrap in a bin of childhood memorabilia. It had one of those rubber stoppers in the bottom so it wasn’t the old school you-only-open-me-once kind of piggy bank.But yeah, I couldn’t really trust to use it. Oh yeah, in case you’re wondering, he did pay me back, sometimes, after weeks and weeks, or sometimes I’d whine/guilt the $ from my mom. I mean it’s “all the same” when you asked my dad about it, but HE never seemed to be the one to open his wallet. But anyway, this was just another small snippet of why he sucked so bad.
The sadness caused by my inability to ever see or speak to my mother is constant. The fact that it is constant, and yet largely unacknowledged, is part of the issue. At this point, there’s no going back even if I wanted to. So, I guess I’m just hoping my dad dies soon, I guess. I mean HE is the one who’s made it this way. It’s not me. You have to pay the price, sometimes, when you do what’s right. Because it’s not easy. The narrow road. The path less traveled. You get it. Then, I don’t know, I’m probably more disgusted by my 43 year old sister in law’s COMPLETE and TOTAL emotional dependence on her almost 70 year old mother than I would be if I ever got to see my mom. But all my sister in law has ever done is unload her problems (the problems she and her stupidity and inability to make smart choices caused, mind you) on her mom. I CANNOT imagine. Like…what??? Sometimes I complain to my mom about certain things like she knows all about being behind on bills and out of money and married to a deadbeat. I mean I guess I should describe my husband like that, but when someone is as notoriously unemployed as him, and I’m over here working and functioning at like 150% more capacity than he ever could, AND he’s being emotionally negative towards me ALL the time now, when he’s not asleep or wallowing about in self pity. The only time we enjoy time together is if we’re going out to eat together. Then sometimes he even ruins that. He tells me I’m always talking negatively about him, that I’m just spewing cutting remarks aimed at him all the time. The fact that I manage every aspect of our lives (I handle ALL matters financial, I do our taxes, I pay the bills, I run and care for the house in every aspect. Now that he’s been unemployed for over two months, he does minor household things every day. The sort of things I did when I was a child of 10 or so.The things I was EXPECTED to do without pay as a child so I didn’t get negatively reinforced a whole lot, because that was definitely the common theme of their parenting styles) and take care of everything of his to the point where he’s responsible for only HIMSELF. Like I cannot imagine existing in life and only needing to shower, and put gas in my car. Groceries appeared in my kitchen. Dirty clothing left all over the house shoots itself through the washer and dryer and back into my closet/dresser. The bath tub and toilet and sink scrub themselves. The floor sweeps and mops itself. I request to be woken up by the smells of cooking dinner during my afternoon nap that always bleeds into the time my spouse gets home from work…. okay that last one was really specific but it REALLY annoyed me. Like even “joking” it REALLY makes me want to tell him to go fuck himself. Like okay, my mom got up first out of all of us, for the most part, except my junior year when I had to get up at 6am because my mom refused to move her shower time to accommodate my need to morning-shower with the hairstyle I had that year. But, because he slept in “shifts” as he called it (i.e. 6-7 hours from late night-morning but with a generous 3-4 hour nap in the afternoon most days, like REALLY necessary this nap was), my dad would be up around 7 or 8 too, blarring the TV in a room that shared a wall (with windows) with my room. My mom was expected (among feeding the cat and whatever she did for herself) to start his coffee water and turn on the heater in his ‘room’ (let’s call it) which was cold because it was an addition, that’s why my bedroom wall had windows that looked into another part of the house. It SUCKED. Do you know what it’s like to grow up in a bedroom with NO natural light??? IT FUCKING SUCKED. I mean, I guess it’s good I got my own bedroom, not the closet though. I had to share that. My bedroom was probably 36 square feet….max. There was a closet twice the size of what I’d called your “average” door (think slightly narrower than a single front door, I guess? the specifics don’t matter anyway). But yes, the only young girl in the house had to share her small closet, half-way to be exact, with her mother. My parents’ and brother’s bedrooms both had closets of the exact same size, they even all had the same awful plywood sliding doors that only connected at the top, and they were hollow and therefore easy to damage. My dad had punched the fuck out of my parents’. If you can imagine. Their bedroom door too. Other doors…other walls…all bore signs of his need to smash and punch when enraged (which was often). Somehow, the logic behind his rule equated to the closet in my parents’ room to be his, my brother’s to be his own, then my mom and I shared mine. Many a loud argument came about because I was smashing my mom’s clothing too far over onto her side. Also, because her clothing (we had to seasonally rotate, in case you’re wondering) was in my closet, every evening, as she prepared for another workday, she would come into my room, sit dejectedly on the edge of my bed and stare wistfully at the clothing she was tired of wearing. I knew the emotion quite well. Some nights she’d sigh and complain. I knew then from school and I know now from work, it sucks being around people who are much more able to freely spend their money on their wardrobe, or their car, or vacations. So, like, even closet space is something that’s kind of emotionally loaded for me, because it was just another thing that I understood about the adult world way before I should have. Plus it was something my mom complained to me about. I try not to fault her, but I remember, when I was a freshman in high school and she dragged me to this terrible Catholic youth counselor, the counselor told my mom it wasn’t right that she complained to me about her adult problems (like being frustrated with my Grandma), that she should call a friend of hers if she needed someone to talk to. But trust me that’s the last thing my mom would do. For one, she doesn’t have anyone she’s that close of friends with, never has. If you can imagine, someone like my dad did what he needed to keep her close friendships severed. Plus that happens naturally as you age, I think. People move away or have kids and become distant, careers change, divorces happen, etc. I think he only tolerated my Grandma because she helped out so much money-wise, but he liked to frame it that he just couldn’t do that to my mom, as rotten as my Grandma was. But I guess she wasn’t awful enough for the taint to affect her money so much so that my dad didn’t ask for it with both hands. That’s the general impression I always had towards my dad and his treatment of my mother’s family, particularly her mother. He was an absolute dick to her brothers, too. Again, he kept them away like he kept his own family away. People like him don’t like distant relatives, they’re an outside influence that MIGHT just have some personal knowledge of how much of a monstrosity of a human being you are. Gotta get those people out of the picture. He needs a nuclear family, obviously, because you need someone, preferably more than 1, to abuse and control. You couldn’t be abusive and controlling if you were alone all the time. I mean there’s the usual scapegoats – your waitresses and cashiers – but it cost to interact with either of them, your wife/son/daughter were free. Emotionally-loaded is actually a perfect term for me. Because most distressing things are also that for me. Because of my childhood. Now the only thing I know how to do really is write about it. You can’t undo it, you can’t just get over it. You must express it in some way, and I think I established early on that I can’t really afford therapy, and my insurance is shitty. So is my internet. I seriously have to keep plugging an ethernet into my laptop. What year is this.
Honestly I guess this thought/list is concluded because that’s pretty much it. The broke-ass-ness of my recent life, combined with my husband’s unemployment. The loneliness and lack of confidant-friendships. The inability to see my mother or have any contact besides email. Everything else I’ve been dealing with since I was a kid. Then I guess I didn’t get into my unfulfilling sex life…that’s a topic for another day….I guess…..I put off writing about it like we put off talking about it. But anyway, it’s almost 4pm and I have only ingested coffee and milk and sugar and artificial flavoring so far today so I need to eat, it’s at the point where I’m shaky. Which gets annoying because you can’t trust yourself to stand up slowly enough.