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Monday, 14 May 2012

fuck you mom

Mothers day is so fucking ridiculous and I hate it because it reminds me of a lot of the crap in my life and it's so lonely and fuck that noise.

I was more a mom to my brothers than my mom was. I was more an actual parent to myself than my mom or my dad was. Sure, they paid the bills but I'm pretty sure laying on my back for some of my dad's friends paid for some of those nice clothes my brothers and my mom wore.

When I say that I worked what I mean is that during the weekends my dad would take me away and I'd work. When I say that I worked I also mean that I waitressed through high school.

When I say that my mom only has two kids, I mean that my mom only really cares about my brothers. When I say that I want her to remember that she has three kids, I mean that I want her to remember that I'm not my dad's whore-on-the-side and I wasn't his concubine. I was their daughter.

I was their daughter and because of the way my family worked, I should be right up there next to my mom on mother's day.

She parented me when I was very very small. When my brothers were in pre-school, I was making sure the lunches were made and their forms were signed.

She had maybe eight years total where she parented. Beginning of me and my brothers. End of teeneagerdom for my brothers.

And that's only because I wasn't there.

I was still doing the parent/teacher conferences. Making sure the forms were signed.

I may only be their sister, but I fucking mothered them while getting fucked by their father. Does that make me a mother? I had sex with your dad lol he is also my dad but since I'm fucking him and raising you does that make me your mother?

I mothered my mother too. Made sure she went to work when she started working. Made sure the house was at least somewhat presentable.

When I don't put away clothes after doing laundry, I know that's a luxury. I know that's a luxury because I know what the price of not doing it could be. I know that no one is going to force me to pay for that. I don't mother myself because I don't know how. I do what I am told because I can't not do it.

They didn't raise me.

They wanted a doll. He wanted a replacement. She wanted a stand-in. And fuck you. I'm fucking good at that.

So did I call my mom to wish her a happy mothers day? Yes. Because not doing that would cause problems and make her sad. Did I want to? No. Did I feel like I had a choice in the matter?

Did I ever have a choice? Will I ever have a mom?

Monday, 30 April 2012

Weight

So, I noticed that I lost weight, which is awesome. I need to lose weight to become a healthier size for my body. And well, looking at it as "losing weight" is problematic for me, so I tend to look at it as "becoming more fit". That reduces the panic and the dysfunction.

Right up until the point where I notice that I've lost weight. I've gone down two pant sizes since January. I don't know how many pounds I've lost, but if I lose about ten more pounds I'll be able to fit into all of the jeans I own (minus one pair that's size eight).

But that's the thing. Since I've noticed, I've been having trouble. I sleep a lot worse. I panic more. I eat a lot weirder than normal. I get sadder periodically. Like, I'll be okay and then I'll have an hour where I just feel soul crushingly depressed. At least until I can distract myself from feeling like I'm in imminent danger.

On the surface, things are good. I'm taking better care of my hygiene, I eat more often, I keep things tidier, I do more stuff, I talk to more people, I'm able to look in small mirrors for a short period, I can kiss the boy without him turning into my dad.

Unless I feel skinny. Then I'm crying into my ice cream, kissing my dad instead of the boy, just laying in my bed, letting the phone ring, being sad that it doesn't ring, wearing more clothes, and walking to the pond at two in the morning.

I should probably talk to my therapist about this, but I don't know how. Write her a note? Text her? Tell her? What words do I use?

I hate my body the way it is. I hated my body the way it was. I feel like it's a prison and I want to destroy it, but that's not socially acceptable.

I don't know how to eat properly. And my face hurts. I wish I could ask for someone else to portion out my meals for me, but that's too much of a needy thing and I can't be needy.

I feel skinny and I want to not feel my body at all.

Wednesday, 25 April 2012

World Destroyer

The boy and I talk about things sometimes. A lot of times actually. And he mentioned a couple nights ago that I'd sort of rocked his world in a bad way. Not like he wants to break up or anything bad or something like that, but that I'd changed his world view a bit. Before he knew me, he knew there were bad people, but they were "out there". They didn't touch his life or his family and if they did, it was only superficially.

I didn't really realize that people really had lives like that. I can understand childhoods like that and maybe some adolescence like that. But to be as far into adulthood as he is? It just sort of boggles my mind. And it makes me very sad. A whole group of people had a happy life without being hurt and in the safety and security of the idea that no one would hurt them.

And I don't let people into my apartment unless I know them very well. He leaves the door to his apartment unlocked. In the summer, when he's home and in the living room, he leaves the DOOR open.

He wants to share his family with me and my family is pretty dysfunctional.

Let's be honest here. Two of my grandmas are abusive. Two of my uncles are majorly fucked up. (One of them hates me and is convinced that I want EVERYONE to go to jail.) My dad is abusive. One of my brothers is abusive. I'm not sure if I'm abusive. My mom is... complicated. I don't know if she's abusive. So that leaves: an aunt, an uncle, one brother, one grandma, and two grandpas (one of whom is deceased). And this is just abuse that I've witnessed. I don't know if my grandfathers were maybe abusive when they were younger.

My family is rotten at it's core. Stories like us only happen on the news in the world of my boyfriend. It's not really that fair of me to just slap him in the face with this.

I just don't know. I'm probably saying it wrong. But whatever. I don't care. I don't matter.

Monday, 23 April 2012

Roommate

So to make a long story short. The boy bought me flowers on Friday. While I was doing homework on Saturday evening, I moved them into my room because I was doing homework there and I wanted to look at them and well my roommate doesn't deserve my flowers. She can get her own - I'm not sharing. One of the flowers dropped a petal on the floor in the kitchen. I left for work the next day before six am and I didn't sweep the floor. And then I came home later. She came home about fifteen minutes after that. I'd literally just changed clothes and gotten my homework out when she walked in.

And I'm quiet. I'm just quiet generally. Sometimes I scare people at work because I'm quiet. One time my coworker called me at six thirty am because she thought I hadn't shown up yet and she was freaking out because she didn't think I was there and now I was a half hour late and OMG. Only I'd been there the whole time. Like, I heard her leaving a message on my cell phone and so I walked into the next room and said hello. Scared her to no end.

Okay, so back on track. There is still a dropped flower petal on the floor in the kitchen. My roommate freaks out because ZOMG DIRT, only she thinks the petal is actually food and I dropped food on the floor and didn't pick it up and "who does that?" and she's busy trying to have a meltdown. I'm in my room thinking 'wtf, when was the last time I ate here?'. And then her mom calls me a fucking dumbass because I didn't clean up the food and they go on to her room. And I'm still sitting in my room trying to figure out the last time I ate at home. I'd last eaten at home on Saturday morning, it was Sunday evening when this was going on. So I go into the kitchen to clean up the food on the floor because I hate upsetting people and I shouldn't have left food on the floor and I can still hear them going ON and ON and ON about the "food on the floor" and even if it had been food, it still didn't need this much bitching about it.

It was a petal. A flower petal. This huge mess, and the huge drama was because of a flower petal on the floor.

It's not like I left the kitchen sink stopped up on wednesday and just didn't do anything about it and then didn't thank my roommate when she fixed it on friday. And it's not like I didn't do that for four weeks in a row. Oh wait. That wasn't me, that was her. Seriously, she does that. She puts the stopper in upside down and fills it with soapy water and washes her dishes I guess. All I see is the sink filled with soapy water starting on Wednesday. Next weekend, I'll fill it back up on sunday before she gets home. It's not like I have dishes to wash after I eat food. Maybe I can put a flower petal in there too.

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

April 16th

Today was April 16th. All day long. I was going to eat more food. I set myself up to do that. I had stuff and I had plans. I got as far as breakfast, five crackers, an oreo, and a jellybean.

It was a cloudless day today. The same as it was a few years ago. Windy again, but not as much as it was. It didn't snow today. It did then. I spent most of the day curled up in my pajamas trying not to have feelings.

I probably should have called my therapist but I didn't feel like I was worth it. I still feel like things were my fault.

After it happened, I wanted to go home but I couldn't. I didn't want to trade what I had just thought was safe for somewhere where I would be raped. Again. I waited a few days and then chose to go get raped.

I still don't feel safe. Not here, not there, not really anywhere. I feel safe with the boy. I feel safe enough going for walks at night.

I still don't walk by Norris. I can't. I was late to class every time last semester because of the detour I had to take to walk just far enough away from it.

I still stop by that memorial stone. I bring flowers sometimes. I sat on the bench once. I didn't feel like I deserved to. Not a survivor.

I went to work and ignored things. Thought about hurting myself. Wanted to cry and leave early. I don't want to be with people. I want the boy to hold me while I cry. Again. For the fourth fifth time this week.