One thing I’ve noticed is that the more fucked up I feel about other things, the more I feel like I’m fat and disgusting. I saw a really cute picture of myself from Saturday night and it was like dueling voices in my head “oh, I look cute and happy there”/”I am fat and disgusting.”
On the one hand, I’m glad I can recognize now that that’s an obsessive thought, but on the other hand, it’s really grueling.
My parents called yesterday to tell me more how to run my life. I think it makes me angry for two reasons. One is that I can run my own life just fine, thank you. I can ask for help when I need it and take care of other things myself. I don’t need people calling me up to ask if I’ve done this or that thing they think is necessary or to tell me that I need to be sure to ask this or that. I mean, we literally had a fight over whether my kitchen door would open completely once the floor was fixed.
My dad was saying that it would and I was saying that was the whole point of getting the floor fixed, but he was so hell-bent on arguing with me that he just carried on with the argument even though we were both on the same side.
Also, I’m pissed because they decided I’m going to go up there for at least two weeks in January to help my mom while my dad has knee surgery and rehab. This is something I would have gladly agreed to do, which I guess is why they felt free to just skip the part where they asked me and made this plan with me and went straight into telling me that this is what I would do. So now I’m pissed and resentful, but what can I do? Someone needs to go up there and sit with them and neither of my brothers can really do it.
Yesterday I broached them coming down here to do the surgery and in-patient rehab. Then there’d be three adults who could pitch in. I wouldn’t have to take an indeterminate amount of time off work. And it wouldn’t completely fuck the schedule of my secret big thing.
Which I guess is also why I’m super pissed. I’m doing important and interesting stuff. (Though, fuck, I cringe to write that.) Why is my life the life in the family considered expendable? Why is it that I’m the one who has to go take care of them? I have accomplished all these things. Why do they work so hard to make me feel like I’m a failure because my house isn’t to their liking?
I think they want me to feel terrible about myself so that they can control me. I don’t think they know that. Not in a way they can articulate.
I don’t know what to do about it or whether anything can be done about it. The point, I’m learning in therapy, is for me to figure out how I’m feeling more quickly and then react in the moment in ways that make me feel better.
That’s the goal–to respond to them in ways that I can live with. Not to make them change.
Not there yet.