The Visit

My parents were here this weekend and I had a fleeting thought on Saturday that, if they wanted to move down, I could always kill myself before they came. And then I laughed, because, damn, that’s the kind of thought you have to call your shrink about.

I’m embarrassed to even write it out, but I want to remember that I had it.

But then I practiced my “what am I feeling?” exercises and decided that what I was feeling is unhappiness. They fight all the time, not even big blow-up fights, just constant sniping. They complain about their friends. They complain about their families. They talk constantly about people I don’t know, but never give enough context for me to know why I should care.

My house is never clean enough. I don’t have the right things they need for whatever. And they seem congenitally ill-equipped to understand that I have other things going on in my life. That I might have had plans this weekend. Or any weekend.

Which is all fine and manageable in small doses.

But the thought of that being my life, if they moved down here because they need someone to watch over them? I can’t do it. They’re going to have to go to my brothers. It was one thing when the Butcher and his family were also here.

But the idea of me, alone, trying to manage them while also maintaining my own ability to function and to have a life outside of them?

I love them and I feel like a really shitty child for not being able to do this for them. But, damn, I couldn’t do this for them.