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Friday, April 3, 2015

Backed Up & Fall Out Boy

In a bad mood at the moment.
My mother met a retired air force woman who offered to answer questions I have regarding boot camp. Since that knowledge made me happy, I wrote it down on a piece of paper to put in my Happy Jar, but didn't actually put it in the jar. Rather, I left it on my computer to deal with later. While I was asleep, my mother read it. My wording on the paper was "Mom claims to have found a retired military woman who..." There's no reason for that phrasing, except that maybe I was reading too much Dracula and it uses formal language, so it rubbed off on me. Later today, my mother dropped hints that I called her a liar and didn't believe her because I said she "claimed", and it made me so angry--not only did she read something that wasn't meant for her, was none of her business, she made a nasty judgement call on it. If she'd asked and not jumped to conclusions, she would have learned that what she told me made me so happy, I was putting it in my jar. She always takes things too personal. When I get angry at her like that, I suddenly remember all the other things she's ever done.
Just two weeks ago, she was telling me about some misconceptions people have about animals or something, and the subject got me excited, so I kept interrupting her, explaining why people might think a certain way. She got angry at me not because I interrupted her over and again (which would be righteous anger) but because I "always contradict her", and other weird misconstrued things, and I was again mad because all I meant to say was that yes, I agree that this is a misconception, but I see why people may think a certain way. Instead of asking me not to interrupt her, or just using her freaking words, she got petulant and angry at me for apparently thinking negative things about her that I wasn't thinking. 

 Earlier than that, I thought I'd lost my class ring. When a friend told me I was still within my warrantee and could get a second one for free from the company, I told my mom. She already knew I'd lost the ring, months prior. Unbeknownst to me, I'd dropped it on the ground and she found it, so she didn't tell me, but kept it hidden in her jewelry box. Fine by me, and what a relief. I didn't even care that she hid it from me. But she exploded at me over text, couldn't believe I'd lost the ring. I reminded her that I already told her I lost it. She continued to go ballistic, making little sense via text, and in her fury she typed out a whole bunch of nasty things. You would not believe the things she said to me, things she brought up, the way she insulted me as a person and a human. God, she was rotten.  Me, I kept my cool. I apologized for having lost the ring, and pretended that the multiple venomous texts hadn't happened. I just talked around her rudeness because I wasn't going to let her have what she wanted, and what she wanted was a fight. By keeping my cool, I gleaned that she'd found it already, she'd had it all along. I wasn't mad about that, like I said, but what made me angry was that after she realized I hadn't lost the ring, that it was still safely tucked away in her drawer, she continued berating me anyway, saying I deserved what she said because of whatever. She refused to apologize (not that I asked her to) for assuming I lost it a second time instead of asking me. The experience didn't effect me too much, it really wasn't out of the ordinary for her, but I certainly didn't forget it.
And much earlier, last June, the most humiliating experience.
In June, as you may know, I went clothes shopping with a friend. But I got a pair of cool shoes from Wet Seal that turned out to be a size 6 and not a 9 (I derped up, man. I didn't even try 'em on before buying them.) My mother doesn't have gas to drive around will-nilly, and I can respect that. But she agreed to take me back to the mall (2 towns over, yikes) to take my shoes back... only she said she wanted to do it on the day I started my temp job as a counselor, since we planned to be driving around that day anyway. That was okay, only I needed to get to work for the meeting on time. She assured me that I was one of their best workers, that if I was a bit late, it wouldn't matter--and if it did, she'd talk to my boss, get me out of trouble. Mollified, I put my fate in her hands. On the day of, she drove me to take my shoes back to the mall without incident, and we headed off to my work. I was nervous as time ticked on, as I was increasingly later and later for my first day at work. But I trusted my mother's judgement. When we got there, my boss talked to my mother privately, and then my boss (who was quietly livid at how late I was, and rightly so) took me aside to talk to me. I realized quickly how angry she was, how close I was to losing this job, by my boss's demeanor. Stumbling over explanations, I told her my mother had wanted to go to the mall to take my shoes back on this day, that this was the only day we could do it because of lack of gas money. There was a pause, then strangely my boss said "It's real hard living with your mom these days, isn't it?" At the time, I thought she was picking up on my hint that we were financially bereft. But in retrospect, I recognize she had a pitying tone, and that she was asking if it was hard living with a person like my mother. She explained my mother's version of the story.
My mom's version was this: I wanted to go to the mall, wouldn't take no for an answer, forced my mom to take me there. My mom tried to tell me it was a bad idea, I'd be late, but I didn't want to listen, so she just let me have my way. 
I felt so hurt and betrayed. She threw me to the wolves. I was embarrassed and angry and devastated that she, a grown adult, was so scared of being rebuked by another adult that she decided to tell a lie and drive off so I'd be the one to deal with the fallout. 
When I returned from that job a week later, my mom casually scolded me on how late I was for the  job (that she drove me to) and how I should have listened to her.
I could go on and on, further in history, describing how she's treated me. There are times she'll let me go somewhere, have fun with friends, and then make me pay for it later, since I didn't do the dishes before I left or made some insignificant misstep in my chores. Or when I confide little things in her, and later on I hear her mocking me about those things--which is why I have never and will never talk to her about my relationships with men. And then there's that annoying thing she says whenever I say "Well, why didn't you tell me?" She always says "I've learned not to try to reason with you because..." followed by an insult, and her belief that I don't listen, that I victimize her, et cetera et cetera. These days, I just try to silently take it, because there's no winning an argument with a deaf man.
I'm not saying she should be perfect. I'm not calling her a horrible mother. I'm not saying I'm faultless. After all, she doesn't treat my brothers like this. She's a good mom to me  65% of the time, and good to them 90%. I'm saying she's prejudiced against me. When it comes to me, she's blinded by her hatred. If my brother told her he was gay, she'd be so supportive and kind. If I did the same, she'd pretend to support it, and behind my back would gossip and think rotten things about me and throw it in my face whenever we get in a disagreement. I don't know how or why, but when she came back from prison when I was 12, she's disliked me since. And of course, let's never forget how she was the catalyst of the first time I cut my wrists open, on my 17th birthday.
Normally, I might evaluate myself. I might ask, what did I do? What can I do to rectify this? I used to say that. I made myself miserable trying to please someone who couldn't be pleased. 
But when I think about how much she dislikes me (and she doesn't let me forget) and how much I adore her, against all odds, despite everything, it tells me there is something wrong with her, not me. Were that not the case, I'd hate her like she hates me. Sometimes, in the heat of a moment, I silently tell the universe I hate her, I scream it in my mind, but I can't hate her. When I think sulfurous like that, my mind immediately thrusts me into a universe where she doesn't exist, and I deflate. After Linda died, I think that way much more often. I think, What if she died tomorrow? 
I shy away from the thought of her suffering in any way. 

I think I need to leave home. I need to be on my own, making my own decisions. 
I need to be my own person, free from someone who can so easily infuriate me with present, stupid little things, because of past injuries I can't forget. I need space and time to cool off.
And she's going to hate me even more, for the first few years after I move out. For years she's been loudly anticipating what she'll do to me "when you start blocking me from your accounts so I can't see what you do with your money" and other such things. She's angry at me for things I haven't even done. 
She'll hate my independence, my stubborn willfulness. She'll hate me because I won't ask her permission to sneeze. I won't ask her advice on everything. She'll tell my brothers that I'll fail, because I'm a "know it all," because I don't grovel to her for every scrap of help she'd toss down to me. And my brothers will believe her. She can and has turned them against me, so they think little of me, because they think what she wants them to think. 
I'll get her opinion and use it to make my own choice, rather than using her opinion as if it were gospel. I won't be like my brothers, who tell mom about the girls they meet, about their darkest fears and most intimate desires, and she'll hate me because I do not trust her with my heart of hearts. 
But she'll get over it.

However, she did buy me a little Mr. Tea ball for my birthday.

Ooh baby, this potentially dangerous kissing spot gives me the hots. 

In much, much lighter news, as I was leaving my art class today, I noticed a spider on the floor in the doorway. I tapped my foot near him and he jumped. I kept tapping my foot near him as if to squish him, and he kept hopping in fright. After a few times, he jumped at me, but I stepped back so I wouldn't squish him for real. The next time I tapped at him, he charged me--literally, he ran at me. It was so funny, everyone watching laughed. I didn't know anyone was watching until then.
And I let the spider live. He wasn't doing any harm.

Also, I was hanging out with some friends when someone brought pie. We got to talking about good homemade pies we've eaten, and my quasi-gay friend said "Ash has eaten my pie." Of course someone had to ask me "How was it?" and despite the odd turn our conversation had taken, I replied "Delicious and metaphorical." :3 They just about died. 

The artist who did this is Wenquin Yan. 

A flashburn silhouette of a man with a cane in Hiroshima, who died instantly when the atomic bomb dropped in 1945, leaving his shadow on these steps. 

Such a good book.

Thinking of Linda lately. Which makes me think of Panic! At the Disco. Which makes me think of Fall Out Boy, the American rock band that hit America like a wrecking ball. Technically a boy band, but... well. Music like that, you really can't use such a term. 
"Sugar, We're Goin' Down."

In case you read this, mommy dearest, I do love you. To the moon and back.
"Chu" much. I recognize the good in you, but I'm not blind to the bad. But you'll forget this little addendum. You'll hear what you want to hear, see what you want. You always have. 


(P.S. See? I wrote this just a few hours ago, and now that I'm about to post it, I feel guilty as hell. I feel like I want to delete it all and tell about all the good things...)

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