Bah Humbug

I can’t go to sleep on that note.  I just can’t. 

Instead, imagine this with me.  We’re in a mansion in Newport, Rhode Island, sitting on a hard, wooden floor, looking at the sun rising over the water, out French doors.  The sun is hot on our faces and the house is still and quiet.

We don’t own the house.  We don’t know the folks who do.  We’ll never be back here again.  We’ll never belong to this place and it will never belong to us.

But legs folded on hard wood, sun streaming through glass, and the smell of salt water–this, too, is our life.  This moment is just as real as any other moment.

And the memory of it is so sweet.

My Back Continues to Trouble Me

I was hoping to take the dog to the dog park today, but there wasn’t an empty one, so we ended up walking a trail.

Well, really, we ended up walking a little bit of the trail and then standing around waiting to see if my back was going to stop troubling me enough so that I could get home.  I about couldn’t even get in the car; it hurt so bad.

My dad, of course, didn’t believe me.

And then decided it was just psychosomatic.

The thing is, I believe it’s psychosomatic, too.  It still hurts.

I would say that the visit is not going well.  I already fought with the Butcher who announced, at the beginning of dinner, that he doesn’t eat off my dishes if he can help it because I don’t clean them to his satisfaction.

America, there is crayon wax over every single one of my glasses.  I, myself, don’t have an art that requires melting crayons all over shit.  So, really, when he wanted to talk about how dirty my glasses were, with his fucking wax all over them, I about lost it.

I about lost it again when I realized that, even after I’d admired my parents’ new van and said hello to everyone only to be ignored, my dad was seriously going to sit on the couch while I finished cooking and complain about how he shouldn’t even bother to come visit me because I don’t care enough if he’s there or not to even greet him.

I am trying to decide if he acts that way just to reestablish that he is the boss or if it’s intended to be an act of aggression or if he just hates me and can’t bring himself to realize it.

I don’t know.  I don’t guess it matters.

I took this week off, but I think I’m going to have to go on on Thursday and Friday.

I’m just livid pissed at everyone.

And, you know, I realized that I never feel more alone than I do when my family is all together.

I should talk to my therapist about this, but it makes me feel like a traitor.

It’s fucked up.  I know it’s fucked up and I don’t seem to see my way out of it.  And now, it’s going to manifest itself in me physically.

That’s just great.

On the upside, this may be the year we don’t have to discuss what a fat, unloveable bossy bitch I am, since they brought down shit-tons of food.

The other thing, while I’m complaining, that just irritates the shit out of me is how my mom always tries to commiserate about how bad my dad’s behavior is.  She’ll like roll her eyes or give you knowing looks.

Like that means something?


Ha, you know, it’s funny.  Just admitting that I’m miserably mad at them makes me feel better.

I just thought this stuff would be easier as I got older, but instead, it seems to come in waves.  Sometimes it’s just fine; they’re just fine; and I’m happy to see them and they’re happy to see me and it seems like we might find ways of being with each other that don’t cause each other so much pain and discomfort.

And other times, it’s like we talked about–that blast furnace of fucked-up-ness you should not open full force on people, like we have to stand in the heat of that in order for…

I don’t know.

I just feel like there’s this gaping hole in my family and no matter how much of your good stuff you throw into it, it never fills.  And I feel like everyone, myself included, expects me to toss more and more in and that, when I don’t, I’m failing as a human being.

Here’s the thing: I don’t want to be unhappy.  I look around my family and I see a bunch of people who are, most of the time, unhappy.  And I don’t want that.  More than anything, I don’t want that.

So, when they’re around, I feel really torn because, on the one hand, I still desperately want their approval.  I want to be trusted and valued and cared for and to feel safe with them.  And I feel this overwhelming compulsion to try and figure out and then do whatever it takes to get that from them.

But that way, I think, leads only to misery.  The things they do, the things they think they should do, make them mostly unhappy.

So, some part of me–my back, this time, apparently–undermines me in order to save me.

I appreciate that, body, I do.

I just wish it didn’t require so much pain.

Merry Christmas, My Christian Friends!

When we were little, there’d always be that moment when we’d be waiting for our parents to wake up, and we’d sneak into the living room and sit quietly in the blinking lights, listening to the Christmas music…

Oh, hey!  I guess that means the parents weren’t that asleep, or hadn’t been asleep that long.

Anyway, that moment, before the presents were open, while the stockings were still full, before we ate all that candy and then our parents stuffed us in the car to head to my grandparents was one of my favorite feelings, full of possibilities.

I hope your whole day is full of that–anticipation and the fulfillment of all your Christmas wishes.