New Jobs and Old

It’s hard to believe that after nearly three years, I only have one week left working at the cafe.  The new job seems to be going well.  I have bittersweet feelings about leaving the cafe.  It’s weird–I had started this blog before I even went to the cafe–I was still at the property management place in the beginning.  So the whole of my time at the cafe is contained within this journal.

My new boss asked if he can clone me.  Although that was more in relation to my enthusiasm (I told him I was leaving my other job for this one), it still can’t be bad, right?  Plus, his son said–and I quote–“You’re the finest new scribe I’ve ever seen.”  And I know he was talking about me before, so if he’s talking, and he feels that way, I must be in good standing.

I have a cafe story.  It’s a good one.  It was last Sunday night, and we had just finished sweeping.  The last thing we had to do before leaving was mop (which Michelle always does, because I can’t mop–I just can’t).  We were sitting on the counter waiting for the mop, and Dennis came over to find out what we were doing.  He informed us that we could not mop behind the line with the same mop that was then being used to mop the bathroom.  He told us to go next door and get more mop heads.

“I don’t need a mop head; I need a mop!” Michelle said.

Dennis brought her a mop with no head.

When Alex emerged from the bathrooms, Michelle called him over to bring us the mop.  But Dennis came running, shouting, “Don’t give them that mop!  Don’t give it to them!”

Alex froze, looking confused.

“Give me the damn mop,” Michelle said, as if Dennis was just insane.

“Yes…give us the mop,” I said in a hypnotic voice, with crazy eyes.

“Don’t give it to them, Alex!  Don’t give it to them!”

Alex was looking, slightly frightened, from one to the other of us, and finally he meekly pulled the mop away and said to us, “He’s the student manager,” in a quiet voice.  And he took the mop back to the main floor.

I walked around to get some lemonade.  I was standing there drinking it, next to the mop bucket, when Michelle came around the side as well, grabbed the unattended mop, and hurled it over the counter like a javelin.  She then jumped over the counter herself, grinning evilly all the while.

The image was so funny that I choked on my lemonade.  Not a pleasant feeling.  And I was choking on that stuff for a while.

As I explained to Michelle, I had almost spit it all over the freshly-mopped floor.  She said I should have.  I wish I had; it would have been so fitting an ending to the story.

Dennis came up right after Michelle jumped over the counter and started mopping and said, “I wondered how long it would take you to think of that.”  He grinned and walked away.

Disney Characters Never Age, and Other Observations From the Mind of Me

I had a rude awakening the other day while watching Disney’s Beauty and the Beast (the animated one).  It was at the very beginning, while the narrator was providing the exposition, and it came to the part about how the spell needed to be broken by Beast’s 21st year…and I said, “What the fuck?  I’m older than the Beast!?”

Then, of course, I let my mind wander to all the other Disney characters who are younger than me.  Aurora was 16; Arielle was 16; wasn’t Jasmine 16?  I’m betting most of them were several years younger than me by now.  This is not right!  I should not be older than Disney characters!

At least I am younger than Roger and Anita.  But we don’t know their ages, so I can always tell myself I am younger than them.

Speaking of all of the above, I got to hang out with Cort and Nicole the other night for Cort’s birthday.  We went back to Nicole’s house to sit in our chairs and just talk, just like old times, and then it really struck me that this was like old times, because it doesn’t happen anymore.  We discussed Milo for a while, and the conversation was so totally different than the hundreds of other conversations we have had about him in that room.  I noted how bizarre it felt for me, because it actually was almost as if I could feel my past self sitting in that same chair and saying such opposing things.  It was like the past, at that moment, was intersecting with the present; universes were nudging one another.  And I could see it.  Just like Scrooge looking at his past.  It felt like that–or at least, how I’d always imagined that to be.

And then we were discussing how different it is now, because Cortney and I are both engaged, and just how–weird that is!

“And you!” Cortney said, turning to look at me.  “You weren’t supposed to get married!  You’re Peter Pan!  But now you’re engaged–and you’re actually happy about it!”

I assured them that it is as much a shock to me as to them.  And it is–because I am Peter Pan–but I’m also in love.  That isn’t supposed to happen; it’s a paradox.  But even though I can’t explain it, I couldn’t be happier about it.  I’m so unbelievably in love.

Speaking of marriage, today I found where I want to be married, but they do not hold weddings, apparently.  They do, however, have wedding receptions.  At the museum downtown, they have this really amazing garden, and we were walking through it today and I was oohing and ahhing and asking if we could please have one or just live in one and not even worry about a house, and The Mormon said, “It might be a nice place to be married,” and after that I was positive I wanted to do just that.  But we asked the guy at the front counter, and he said no.  Now, however, I’m all excited and am going to be on the hunt for someplace to say the vows.

When I was doing all my bitching about the hospital, I left out one thing that I thought was really cool about it.  When we went in that night, this one guy (I don’t know what he is, so I’ll just say a guy in scrubs) actually recognized me.  My mom had made some comment about the last time, and Scrubs said, “I remember.  I was here nine hours that night.”  I mean, how cool is that?  How many patients must he see every day, and it had been three months, and yet he remembered me.  Of course, there were three people with me who were there both times as well, so they may have had something to do with that.  But I thought that was very cool.  And then a little while later a nurse came in, and she remembered me, too.  That’s just really good service, I think.

That said, I still consider the hospital stay one of the worst times of my entire life.  I know it was only a week, but it was completely horrifying.  I guess something good came out of it, though–I haven’t felt so depressed since the hospital.  I had been so miserable for the three months preceding the hospital, and when I got there, it completely broke me down into nothing.  So basically, when I got out again, it was like, anything’s got to be better than that.  Yeah, I’m still somewhat depressed, and yeah, I still have my moments, but I think I’m getting better.  At least, I know that I will probably be better around three months from now, and that’s way better than half a year.

We realized tonight that we will be able to see each other more often with the semester over.  And then, before next semester begins, we should be living together, so we will actually be able to see a lot of each other.  It will be so splendid.

I know this entry is really ADD.  I never have time to update anymore.  Just bear with.

The other night at work, it was 7:15 (we go on break at 7:30), and we had had a nonstop flow of customers since 4:30.  It happened to be ice cream night, and as I was on the non-ice cream side of the line, every single customer who wanted real food had to come to my side.  So I was busy and hot and tired.  And I said, “Sandra, make the customers go away!” in a whiny sort of voice.  Sandra smiled.  And I continued, “I could do it myself, but it would take me 15 minutes.”  Sandra laughed.  I just thought it was funny.

Ooh, and the other night I was talking to Michelle about snow, and trying to describe a snowfall at night.  I described the thousands of white pinpricks coming at you from entirely across your field of vision, and how it could almost feel like you’re rising up into them….  I told her it felt like the stars were all falling on you.  Then after a pause, I said, “Ooh.  That was almost poetic just then.”  “Yeah, I was going to say!” she said.

I think that’s it for tonight.  More tomorrow, perhaps.

Immaturity and Rare Good News

The other day we got a brand new router that works beautifully; but now I am back to having to steal internet from my neighbors.  The reason for this is one more example of how bizarre my home life really is.

The desktop, you see, does not work, and has not worked properly in years.  The latest problem is that it needs a new ethernet card and thus will not go online.  This was not a problem with the new router, because I have a laptop, Psychobrat has a laptop, and my mom just got her own laptop.  My dad, however, does not have his own laptop, and so yesterday, when he was already pissed off for some reason we were unaware of, he chose that moment to attempt to go online on the desktop.  Then there was a huge scene about the failings of technology and how unfair it is that the rest of us can go online and he cannot.

My mom pointed out, “You could use my laptop.”  He retorted that that was not the point.

He then unhooked the router because, in his words, “Now nobody else can go online, either.”

He also pointed out how very like Psychobrat and me he and my mom sounded while arguing over the computer.  He said this in a mocking voice, attempting to piss off all of us.

I might also point out that my mom needs the internet in order to do at least one of her four jobs, if not all of them.

So yeah, I’m really disgusted by the level of immaturity that was exhibited yesterday.

In good news, I now have a second job as a scribe; I listen to stuff on headphones and I type it.  I’m pretty much working full time now, so I should have some good money by the end of summer, at which point I shall choose which job pays more and keep it.  I’m a little worried about this one because there is no fixed salary; I am paid strictly by how much work I get done in one shift.  So it’s like living off of tips, which will stress me out to a degree.  On the other hand, I can wear normal clothes, and it’s still right next to the school, so in a convenient location.  I got the impression, when I was being trained the other night, that the trainer was incredibly impressed with how I was doing; it turns out I was correct.  The Mormon told me today that my trainer had been “singing my praises” to David (the guy who told me about the job–I don’t know him, he just works with The Mormon).  Apparently I’m already doing as well as either people who work 40 hrs/wk, or people who have been there for 40 hrs already, or something.  Either way, I’m doing quite well.

The Mormon and I have quite possibly found a place to live.  His friend Ski (still don’t know how to spell his name) is planning to buy a townhouse (in a safe area) and rent us a room, starting in July.  So we don’t have to worry about living without a/c.  We had heretofore overlooked Ski as a potential roommate because he is a frat boy, and we were concerned about wild parties in our home.  But now that we’re really talking about it, we’re pretty certain Ski will respect us enough not to do that, or at least to warn us beforehand (since he will be the owner).  He’s one of Dean’s best friends, and he’s a really good guy whom I’ve hung out with several times.  He is also looking into townhomes that are practically five minutes from where I live now, so I won’t have to adjust to entirely new surroundings.  I can drive practically the same route to school and work and wherever else I go.

It looks like things might actually be looking up again.  I’m less concerned about the poison now, because it is now only a few months until I (hopefully) get off of it for good.  It isn’t half a year anymore.  Of course, by then it will have been half a year, which is incredibly depressing.

We have a new dog.  A female Pomeranian named Darby this time.  She seems sweet enough, I suppose, although I think she is only partially housebroken.  As she lives with us (and is already four years old), she will never be housebroken, but I’m moving out in a couple months and will not have to deal with this.  She’s a retired show dog whose full name is Wee Paws Duchess Darby.  Her vocal cords have been removed, which I find as appalling as her full name, and she’s fat.  An average Pomeranian is between 5-7 pounds; she weighs 10.  But she’s cute.  Extremely fluffy.  And well-behaved–thus far.

I do have some dreams, but I shall save them for another time.

The First Fight

Because something this dark had to be documented….

You know how it’s been.  With me, on the meds.  How many times have I said I’m a different person?  How many instances have I pointed out of The Mormon trying to get me to talk to him, and I couldn’t say anything because nothing came to mind except death?  That isn’t me.

For that reason, I refuse to consider anything that happens before I am off the medication and back to normal a fight.  I don’t want to be unfair, but I really do want to see just how long we can go without having one, and if I am not me, then somebody else is fighting with my fiance about things and in ways that the real me never would have.  Make sense?  It makes sense to me, and I’m the only one who matters in this case; I don’t care what anyone else says.

But based on what happened the other day, I have a feeling that fighting with us will be rare, and it will be dirty and epic and frightening when it does occur.

I was in one of those moods.  In particular, besides the usual, there was also the fact that I would be having a bit of skin cut off the following day and would have to stop working out for a while, and that someone had honked at me on my way home.  (It wasn’t my fault; I was waiting for another car to go by before I turned into traffic.  The car behind me was just being a dick.  So I responded by flicking them off, yelling, and revving my engine frighteningly as I sped off angrily.)  But I was still angry about that when I got on the phone with The Mormon, and I was sulking about medication and the surgery, and I stopped talking like so many other times, and then I told him exactly what was on my mind, and he got really frustrated and saw that he wasn’t making a dent on my stupor, and finally he said, “I’ll call you later” and hung up on me!

At first I wasn’t even hurt by it.  I was actually satisfied that I had pissed someone else off about as much as I was.  But then when I knew his class was over, and had been for about 45 minutes, I got concerned that he wasn’t calling me back.  I wondered how long to wait before maybe calling him back.  I finally decided I was too proud to call him back when he had hung up on me in the first place.  But I knew I had to leave my mark.

So I left him the most evil text message–in fact, one of the most evil things I’ve ever said ever.  My poor love.  I felt horrible afterward.

I texted, “That’s a great way to leave your mentally ill fiance.  You could have at least said you loved me before hanging up on me.”  Because in a way, yeah, it had angered me and upset me.

The phone rang immediately thereafter.  I gave it a couple rings as I tried to decide whether to answer it or not.  And finally I picked it up and said, “What?”

He was very quiet and serious, and I calmed down after a minute because he had called me back, and I apologized, but he did not.  He was sorry for hanging up on me, but not for being so frustrated with me, because as he explained, I need to do something to handle all of this.  If that’s talking to a counselor, or going off the medication altogether, or just dealing with it until it was over–something.  It’s my responsibility to deal with it.

We ran out of time and I went to work, unsatisfied and still incredibly sorry for what I’d said to him.  He had said he would probably come to see me at my dinner break, and I was waiting impatiently for that moment so I could go and apologize to him and hold him and whatnot.  And at 7:30, he appeared, and I did just that, and I teared up a bit, but I don’t remember if he noticed that or not.  He got dinner and went to sit and wait for me.  I thought things were better.

But when I went to sit down with him, he wasn’t sitting with the group like usual–he was at a two-seat table.  This led me to believe that something was still wrong.  And it was.  Dinner was awkward.  I kept looking at him funny because I wasn’t sure how to look.  How can you apologize for saying something like that?

When we both finished eating, I moved my chair around so I could speak to him quietly, and again I apologized for the horrible thing I had said.

He was frightening.  I’d never seen him so solemn and quiet and frigid, and had certainly never expected to see him react to me that way.  And then he gave me a speech.  I sat and listened to it silently until the end.  He said things like, “This is not a relationship” and “I felt like I was sitting across from a stranger just now–I really didn’t even want to come out here tonight” and “I don’t know who you are these days–you’re not the same girl I proposed to or asked out to begin with” and “If this keeps up, I’m going to leave–I’ll get out now because this is not a relationship.”

These were some of the most frightening things that had ever been said to me, ever.  Most of them were repeated a number of times.  He had obviously been thinking about this all day.  All day while I was feeling miserable and wanting to apologize to him.  But I don’t blame him for any of it.  I know I’m not the same person, and have even wondered a few times how he could stand to be in a relationship with me when I’m not the person he asked out.

Hearing it from him was totally different.  There was a brief silence after he finished speaking, and then I started sobbing.  Loudly.  And hyperventilating, and grasping his arms and clutching him around the waist and trying to get closer and closer and closer to him so he couldn’t get away from me, and I was panicking.  It was a revolting display.  He kept telling me to breathe and to calm down, that I wasn’t going to lose him, he wasn’t going anywhere.  And I’d calm down briefly and immediately start up again with the bawling and trying to hold him closer and closer to me.  I thought I was going to die.  Losing the only light in my life would be death.

Finally, finally, after we’d sat there about twenty minutes, I calmed down to a degree that I thought would enable me to finish cleaning up for the night and leave.  I didn’t totally lose control anymore that night, but I did keep crying.  I didn’t even say good-bye to anyone, that last night before spring break and my surgery.  No–I said good-bye to Tyler.  I’d told him what had happened that afternoon and how much I wanted to see him that night, and Tyler saw me looking miserable and asked me if things had gotten better or worse, and I told him I wasn’t sure and cried some more and he hugged me and wished things well, and I went outside to meet The Mormon.

By this point I was a little irritated at what he’d just put me through, although I still don’t blame him for it.  For a few minutes I did.  But he had offered to come to my house with me and just lie down on my bed and rub my back or something, so he did.  He read to me a bit from the book he was reading, a Terry Pratchett novel.  And after a few minutes of not being able to concentrate, I kissed him a bit and just held him tightly and asked if he would leave me if I didn’t see a counselor.  He kissed my forehead and told me he would never put that ultimatum to me, that he loved me and had been frustrated and needed to say those things so I knew what he was experiencing.  And I understand; I totally do.

For the next few days I felt slightly awkward around him.  And one day, I think Tuesday, I told him that, and he kissed me again and told me we were just fine.  I think that may have been the day we had sex that week.  Maybe the next day.  Either way, everything has been normal since then.  He’s been quite wonderful, in fact, coming to the hospital and helping me in so many ways.  I told him I’m going to love being married to him so very much.

Just Another Day

I’m not doing well.  I’m just not.  Emotionally I’m a wreck and I don’t care about anything except my goddamn cycle.  Wouldn’t you be if you had to be on your cycle ten days and counting when you weren’t supposed to even be on it for another two weeks?  And you knew that the reason for it was the fucking medication you didn’t want to be on in the first place?  Would you be able to focus on anything else?

I can’t.  And I’ve got months of this left.  Months. Plural.  Period.  Nothing feels normal to me.  I don’t want to do anything.  I don’t like seeing people.  Work, which I used to enjoy because I got to see people, makes me anxious to leave so I don’t have to see or talk to anyone.  I don’t want to be around friends.  I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday at all this year, and I tried to make sure not a lot of people knew about it.  I just don’t want attention.  I don’t want to be around anyone.  Except The Mormon.  He’s always okay.

But I have trouble talking to him sometimes.  Anytime the subject of my health comes up, I get quiet because it makes me think all these depressing thoughts, and like usual, I can’t focus on anything else at all.  But then he worries because I’m not speaking, and he begs me to say something to him, and I know I have nothing at all good to say because I can’t think of anything good, and he asks me to tell him what I’m thinking, and what am I supposed to tell him, that I want to die?  That never goes over well.  It hurts him and I don’t want to do that.  Or he gets frustrated because he can’t do anything to change it, and his words come out all irritated and rushed as he tries to frantically talk me out of my stupor, and I don’t say anything more at all because after I’ve said the one thing that’s on my mind, it isn’t really necessary to say anything else.

It isn’t that I’m going to harm myself.  I’m not.  A month or so ago–I don’t know, I have no conception of time these days–I promised myself not to, just for him.  But when I’m sitting on the couch staring into nothingness and I can’t interest myself with anything that used to interest me or anything at all–at all–and I’m just existing because that’s what everybody thinks I should do…I can’t think of any way to escape from it.  I feel panicked because there’s no direction to turn then, when nothing is interesting, and all I can think about is dying because that’s the only way I know of to get away from everything.  What would you do if nothing was interesting?  Nothing? I don’t like writing.  I don’t even like writing in this thing; this feels like a chore to me, but I do it because I think I should.  I can’t read because the words just go in front of my face and then a few pages later I’ll realize I haven’t read anything.

I can’t sleep.  In fact, at the end of the night when I know it’s bedtime and I have to go to sleep so I don’t have more seizures, I get panicked at the idea of going to bed.  I used to like going to sleep just to see what weird dreams my head would conjure.  But I don’t care if I dream or not now; I just don’t like going to sleep.  It worries me.  I am afraid to sleep. That isn’t even logical.  It makes me feel like I’m wasting time or something.  It makes me feel incredibly alone because everybody else is sleeping too, and then it’s just me, alone with my own darkness and not able to lose consciousness.

In rather pleasanter news that at one time would have made me way more excited than I am, I ran into L’Owen on the way to see The Mormon at work yesterday.  He asked me how everything is going; I gave him a brief summary.  I wasn’t certain exactly which parts The Mormon had told him, and when he asked whether my family is helping, I laughed and said, “Well…I guess they’re trying to.”  I told him about my brother, and then that my brother’s 14.  His shock was evident.  I explained that my sister is psychotic and that my dad’s pretty much the same way.

He said, “Well, you’ve got your mom, and Dean’s a really good guy.”  Then he told me if I ever needed anybody outside the usual circle of people I talk to, to contact him.  “You know I’m very fond of you.”  I thanked him of course, said good-bye, and went up to see The Mormon, to whom the first thing I said was, “L’Owen says he’s very fond of me,” with a grin.

“I’m going to have to keep an eye on that guy,” he said.

An Emmy Dream and Job Ponderings

It’s funny when dreams coincide with real life accidentally.  Not last night, but the night before, I had this dream I was at UNF (I think–the campus looked different) when Emmy Rossum literally bumped right into me.  We stopped and looked at each other, and I was staring because I had never seen her face to face, and she was staring in shock, and she touched her own face and said, “Oh, my god….”

“I know!” Dream Me said.  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

After that she kept following me around campus because she was so fascinated, and I think I was teaching one class and she was teaching another…I’m not sure.  Something.

So yesterday at work, this guy I know, Brandon, came through my line.  After I gave him his plate, he hesitated, so I knew he was going to say something.

“I’ve just got a quick question,” he said.  “Have you ever seen the movie The Phantom of the Opera?”

I smiled in a way that must have been knowing, because he kind of laughed, and I said, “You think I look like her, right?”

He wanted to know if I can sing like her, too.  Unfortunately, I can’t.  That would rock, though.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I have a bit of an obsession with this girl.  I would really like to meet her.  I mean, wouldn’t you?  I’ve never seen somebody who looked that much like me.  Not even my family looks that much like me.  It’s freaky!

I’ve been starting to consider leaving my job.  It’s just starting to feel like that time.  If I’m there until August, it will have been three years.  It’s sad, because in a way the cafe is like home.  A lot of my friends work there, and I’m there at least twenty hours a week and more if I feel like stopping by just to hang out.  But I’ve got to do something that pays better.  I’ve got to.  Yeah, the convenience of eating free every night will be missed, as well as the opportunity to steal loaves of bread (and laugh mockingly at Jean Valjean) when The Mormon and I are on our own.  (I’m sorry, Jean Valjean, I didn’t mean it.  I heart you!)  But if I can go somewhere and make twice what I’m making now, then why the hell not?  And as I said, like when I was working at Watson, I can just feel that the time is approaching.  (Wow–now it feels almost strange to think that I was writing in this all the way back when I was working at Watson.)

Anyhow.  Just waiting on a call from my lovely fiance.

Bottles of Fury

Bottling up one’s emotions is quite a different matter than getting angry without shouting about it.

My dad sees no difference between the two.  The way he sees it, the rest of us (his family) are in the wrong–in fact, we are inferior and phony (his word)–because we do not know how to get angry, and there is no alternative to living with us but to be angry at all times.

My dad has anger issues.  He yells or laughs scornfully at the idea of anger management quite frequently these days, because he knows we all think he needs it.  But it isn’t even so much the fact that he’s angry all the time.  Even if he legitimately had cause to always be angry (it’s questionable, but I’ll at least give him that to show how generous I am being), he doesn’t handle it in a manner that is healthy for anyone, and that is the problem.  He yells.  He yells a lot and very loudly, and he slings insults and belittles the rest of us, and he brings up things that happened fifty years ago (and you think I’m exaggerating) because in his mind, everything is related, and if he’s angry about one thing then he is angry about everything.

Most of these things that he yells about–there are certain things that will always come up, but of course there are always new things, as well–are not relevant.  Not at all.  There is no reason in any of it.  And as it is impossible to argue rationally with someone who does not or cannot see reason, all we can do is stand there and take it.  He also steps on your words if you try to argue back, so really, there’s just no point.

One of his favorite things to yell about is how the rest of us–or at the very least, my mom and all her sisters–bottle up their emotions.  This, as he said the other night, is phony.  (The real, or at least initial, issue at hand was whether someone had broken into our house, or if one of Brother’s friends had started stealing from us.)

“Well, I guess I’m a phony, then,” my mom said the other night.

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess so.”

But it isn’t a matter of bottling up our emotions.  My mom was angry the other night, too, as she tried numerous times to point out to him.  But she wasn’t yelling and screaming at the rest of us about whether or not her younger sister was illegitimate.  She was trying to think and talk about the matter at hand, rationally, without verbally abusing the rest of us.

It led me to think about how, for most of my life, I’ve bottled up my emotions.  Yeah, I’m a phony.  Guilty as charged.  I don’t like to push my shit on everybody else, so if I feel like crying or complaining to someone, generally I’ll just keep it inside.  And I keep more and more of it inside and it builds until finally, I can’t keep it down anymore and I just explode.  Maybe I have a nervous breakdown, or maybe I have a seizure.  But one way or another, my body and my brain can’t contain that much stress for that long.  Serenity now, insanity later.

That’s one thing the poison has done for me, at least some of the time, when I’m trying to be stronger than it and control my own emotions as much as possible.  It makes it so I can’t hold them in, or so that I don’t care.  I retaliated that night Bob tried to boss me around, and he hasn’t done it since.  The other night, one of the side effects of my medication made me really furious and I wrote a lot of scary shit on every page of the calendar that hangs in my bedroom.  Last night, while talking to my mom about all of this stuff (except that she hasn’t yet seen my Calendar of Doom), I punched the wall a few times and am now dealing with a swollen knuckle.  I cry to anyone and everyone, and none of it makes me feel the least bit guilty.  It really feels like there are two of me.

There have been times in the past when my bottle exploded in front of others, and then I’d yell and scream, and if this was in front of my dad, he’d laugh at me, because I had just proven him right.  Or I’d be angry or upset, and I wouldn’t do anything so as not to burden anyone else, and I’d feel even worse when my dad would say that I obviously felt nothing because I wasn’t angry like he was.

What he does is wrong!  It’s so wrong and it fucking pisses me off!  But am I yelling at you?  No.  Am I telling you that your family obviously doesn’t want you around and even wants you to go to Hell?  No.  Am I telling you that you’re a woman so you can fucking deal with it yourself and see if I care?  No, I’m not doing any of that.  I’m simply angry, and I’m angry for a reason, and I think my reason is pretty clear.

A Psychobrat Tale

Anyone for a Psychobrat story?

It happened when I was in the shower yesterday.  I had just gotten in and was in the process of shaving my legs, when, in the general direction of the front door, I heard some pounding and then a crash as it was thrown open.  Brother shouted, “Geez!” with genuine alarm in his voice.

My first thought was that one of Brother’s friends had broken in with a weapon.  Seriously, that’s what I thought.

Then I heard Psychobrat’s door thrown open, and a moment later, she was banging on the bathroom door and demanding, in screeching tones, that I get out of the shower immediately.  She had fifteen minutes to shower, get dressed, and dry her hair.

I kept shaving my legs and didn’t reply.

Psychobrat started kicking the door, attempting (I’m not assuming here–she really would have if pushed that far) to kick it down.  She also kept screaming about her emergency.

In a calm and rational tone, I said, “Shut the hell up.”

“NNNNOOOO!!!!!!!” she Exorcisted.  “I NEED TO GET IN THERE NOW!!!!!”

As she was still attempting to kick in the door, and I know that our house does, in fact, belong to this screechy 19-year-old, I sighed and did as she commanded.  I did it slowly, however, to cause her maximum irritation.

You might wonder why I put up with this.  There are a few reasons.  As Psychobrat must always be right and always have the last word, you cannot win with her.  Even if she deserves it, you can’t just punch her in the face and expect to not receive some form of retribution.  I would pay in dire ways.  And as I was in the shower, she had access to my bedroom, and thus everything that I own.  Everything, including the laptop on which I now complain.  Remember that scene in Little Women when Amy tears up Jo’s journal, and Jo loses all her valuable work?  Yeah, it’s exactly like that.  (In fact, I believe that exact thing happened to me quite a few years ago.  Or else I just always knew that it could happen to me, so I’m remembering it that way.)

There were numerous periods in the past, back when she (for reasons which never made much sense–something about her only owning one pair of jeans, which has never been true) did her laundry every single night, in which I would choose one day of the week (Saturday night–and I still do it the same way) to do my own laundry.  I would rearrange my entire Saturday schedule to avoid doing laundry at a time when she needed the washer, and yet somehow, as soon as my clothes were wet and soapy, it would suddenly be her time to use it, and I would be ordered to remove my clothes from the washer.  As I would never comply with this command, she would then remove them herself, drop them on the floor, and step all over them.  Fortunately, she no longer does laundry every single day, so I can actually do that with very little stress.

There have been many times when she would order me to get off the computer because she needed it, and when I would refuse (it didn’t matter if I was conversing with an old friend or writing an important essay), she would destroy something in my room or merely unplug the computer from the wall (which likely accounts for half of its problems today).

So no, it isn’t merely screaming that you have to put up with for not giving Psychobrat her way.  She’s destructive, and you pay for it.  Had she kicked in the door yesterday (and because she wasn’t getting her way, that is what it would have led to), that would have been my fault, for not instantly complying with the one who apparently had an emergency, when I didn’t have to be at work for another three hours.  Trust me–there’s no reason in this household.

Hence her nickname.

Anyway, so I stood there in my towel at the doorway, waiting for her to get out, and when I finally showered and got out myself, and got dressed, and headed back to the bathroom to put up my hair for work, I heard her through her bedroom door, talking to somebody on her cell phone.  (She said something about, “What kind of decent person would do something like that?” which I found a bit ironic.)

An hour later, she hadn’t left yet.  So yes, it could have all been avoided, but that doesn’t matter–the important thing is that the beast was satisfied, and peace could return to Canterville.

My dad asked me tonight how much it might cost for The Mormon and me to build an apartment at the back of our house.  I shall let the absurdity of that idea sink into your minds and not say another word about the matter.

Yesterday I was thinking about some of this stuff, and I started to feel sick to my stomach.  I’ve put up with this and much, much more for my entire life, usually quietly, because there’s really nothing I can do, which is why I keep all of my stress inside, which is probably why my brain started exploding randomly over Christmas break.  And now that I know that my family is literally giving me serious health issues, I am incensed.  They can take what they want away from me–sanity, quiet, freedom, what the hell ever–but now that they’ve fucked up my health…I can’t express how disgusted and infuriated I am.  The only thing left to do is get out, which we will do as quickly as possible.  The time has certainly come.

On a lighter note, here’s something I learned from last week’s crossword.  To “lave” means to bathe.  I had never heard the term before and had to look it up in the dictionary, but as soon as I saw it, it made complete sense.  “Lavish”–to lavish someone with praise, for example, means to bathe them in praise.  “Lavatory” (or “lav,” for short)–the British term for washroom.  It all comes from the same root word, “lav,” which I believe Oxford said was old French.

On a further suspicion, I looked up “laundry” and discovered that it comes from the same root.  I was so excited, and damn it, I really need to learn Latin!  I would thrive in that language.

I’ve obviously been reading a lot lately, with little else to do (although I have some things I intend to write and ought to get those underway).  I read some graphic novels:  Alan Moore’s The Killing Joke, for one.  I was surprised by the fact that this book actually made me almost sympathetic towards Joker.  I was really nervous at the end as he attempting to tell the killing joke, because he seemed to be stuttering, and I thought he might mess it up, and that would have been devastating for him, and I would have felt bad for the freaking Joker.  I was also amused by Batman’s reaction to it, and I was amused by the joke itself.  I laughed.

I read Arkham Asylum, by Grant Morrison, and it was this book that made me stop and consider for the first time ever how seriously creepy the Batman villains are.

Mark Millar’s Red Sun, in which Superman lands in Russia and is raised by Stalin as a Communist, was really insightful.  I love those Elseworld stories, when well-known characters are placed in totally different situations to see what they do.  They really make you think.  I was slightly annoyed by the ending, because there were two things that could have happened on that last page, and I would have done the other thing–but it was very good nonetheless.

And lastly I read Alan Moore’s Watchmen, which made me aware for the first time of just how much goes into writing comics; I couldn’t do it.  I mean, you’ve got to make sure that every panel matches up with the words, that it all balances out evenly.  In panels with multiple characters and lines of dialogue, you’ve got to ensure that the expressions on these characters’ faces match up with all of the dialogue.  And Alan Moore has the strongest grasp on parallelism–it’s incredible.

Now I’m reading C. S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy, and I’m really into it.  It’s very descriptive and lovely, and it seems to me that every thought Ransom has is something I had thought, and he wonders and observes the same things I feel I would wonder and observe were I in his situation.

I also just got through reading Animal Farm to Brother, because I knew he would enjoy it, and he really did.  He was satisfyingly creeped out by it, and when it was over I gave him a brief explanation of what it meant and was based on, and related it to V for Vendetta, which I know he has watched.  I also informed him of the existence of 1984, to hopefully instill an interest.  I do what I can.  He’s a smart kid; I just hope he realizes it one day.

Brother Troubles

While my 14-year-old brother sat at the computer at 1 a.m. the other night, four of his friends were having sex on the bed and couch in his room.

My mom, whose room shares a wall with Brother’s, heard sounds and went out to check on them, startling the four middle-schoolers, as I believe they all were.  In fact, according to Psychobrat, she looked at this girl who was holding the blanket in front of herself and said, “Honey, do you have any clothes on?”

Said girl had actually run away from home.  The next night (last night) her mother came by our house at 2:00 looking for her (she wasn’t here).

It seems like children of progressively younger ages are engaging in sexual activities, which leads me to wonder if the average lifespan of human beings isn’t beginning to diminish.

Whatever.  Brother’s friends are all complete dipshits, anyway.  I think he has successfully alienated any decent person who ever had cause to associate with him.

Jedi’s Graduation and Apartment Shopping

There’s a guy at work whom I call Jedi.  I know I’ve mentioned him in the past–he has a Padawan braid.

Anyway, the other night he came in and the braid was gone.  I gasped.  “Jedi, did you cut your hair?”  (I’ve never asked his real name.  He seems amused enough by his nickname.)

He nodded, wearing the same sheepish smile he always does when I call him by his nickname.

I smiled so wide and said, in a voice like a mother commending her first-grader on an S+ report card, “So now you really are a Jedi!”

The Mormon and I went apartment-shopping today.  It seems no matter what we do, if we want something in an area where we will not be killed, we’re going to have to get a roommate.  I’m a little not pleased about that because it’ll be the first time we’re living together, but I know Cortney and Patrick did the same thing, and they managed okay.  Their wedding’s still on.  Besides, it’s got to be better than remaining in my house.  I’ll be living with The Mormon.  I won’t have to lie in my bed alone anymore, missing him and knowing that I won’t see him for another six days.  It doesn’t really sound like a lot, but some nights, like this one–it is.