Chaos Attraction

...Must Come Down

2003-06-28, 10:01 p.m.

Unless you have had a slowly dying father, you will want to skip this entry. I doubt the rest of you would understand. It's all the usual post-parental-visit crap anyway, I don't know why anyone even bothers to read these entries.

It never fails that when I go visit my parents for a weekend, the first two days are great, happy, why-don�t-you-come-home-more-often bliss, and the third day makes me want to kill myself, them, or all of the above plus any nearby bystanders. My theory so far as to why this is is that the first two days of a visit, I�m new, I�m fresh, and everyone�s on �happy company manners,� so to speak. By the third day, they�ve grown accustomed to me and annoyed by me again, and feel free to heap on the unhappy.

I�m not saying that I don�t deserve everything I got here. Because lord knows I most certainly do.

Sunday started out with me needing to take a shower. The only one in the house is in the parents� bedroom. Mom had already come into my room and bugged me several hours previously. I walked in when they were both in the room and just headed to the shower.

�You didn�t say good morning to your dad,� Mom griped.

�I never say �good morning� to anyone in the morning, Mother. I�m barely awake.� Plus lord knows I ain�t perky. I don�t acknowledge anyone�s existence unless it�s forced upon me, really.

�You�ve been awake for hours.�

While I was in the shower, Dad started crying. I don�t know if it was because of me or not. I walked out and found that. I just walked out of the room, having no idea how to react to this, as usual.

I went back into my room and Mom followed me in to give her usual talk on:

(a) Why can�t you show love for your father to him?

(b) He Can�t Help Being Like This.

(c) He�s still in there trying to get out.

I dread this conversation like nothing else, because it goes nowhere. I try to dissuade her from asking me once again why I can�t do it, and this never works because she is undissuadeable. She asks me time and time again to explain to her how I could possibly act like this and feel this way, and as usual, I can�t. I don�t even understand it myself, and her demanding I try to explain again and again only makes things worse and makes her feel rotten in addition to me. All I know is that I�m furiously mad at him for getting sick and above all else, stupid. I can count to ten, fifteen, fifty, one hundred and I don�t feel any better, or calmer, or able to deal. Saying, �HE. CAN�T. HELP. IT� to myself a billion times a day makes no difference in how I feel and that my feelings are wrong. It doesn�t matter that he can�t help it. The problem remains whether he brought it upon himself or not, �He Can�t Help It� only makes you feel even more guilt when you�re mad than you already did.

She always reminds me, like I don�t know, that he doesn�t have all that much time left and in a few years he�ll be dead and I�ll be sooooo sorry and kicking myself for the rest of my life that I didn�t have a relationship with him while he�s like this.

Yeah. I know that. I already kick myself for it, and I still can�t bring myself to show affection to my father beyond making the occasional joke to him. I can�t even FAKE that I can do it well. I don�t want to hug and kiss him and feel what the disease has done to him up close. Mom told me to close my eyes and picture him the way he used to be while doing it, but I literally can�t when touching him. I can�t stand it when he speaks because no matter how many times I watch his mouth and ask him to repeat it, I still have no idea what he is saying. I panic if Mom leaves me alone with him and he attempts to talk to me. He often ends up screaming in frustration. All I feel is sick and mad. I don�t want to let HIM know that I�m mad and sick at him, so I avoid him so as to not burst out screaming how mad I am one day. It�s the best I can do. Of course, Mom doesn�t get why I�d react like that at all and why I�m such a heartless bitch. It doesn�t feel like �he�s still in there,� or that he is a person separate from the disease at this point.

He�s not pleasant to be around, and I don�t know how on earth Mom does it. I think she is a saint for it, and lord knows I don�t think I could be nearly as good about it as she is if this ever happens with Dave (please, dear god, no). And even she was saying that she gets mad too, that she�s not nearly as good and patient and accepting of him �as I should be- he can�t help it.� Well, if she�s not, then what�s the hope for the rest of us?

She said that being home this week made her realize how very badly he needs her, and that she might have to quit work to take care of him. Oh god. I can�t imagine her sanity would do very well not getting to ever get out without him or have any semblance of her own life. She gripes that I can escape this and have my own little life and avoid dealing, and that�s why I won�t come home enough. Can�t argue with that.

The conversation varied with her as we had to speak around Dad again while we were in the car. She turned to a different mode of attack, one where she wanted to know why on earth I don�t stand up for myself, or ever express my true feelings about anything, or don�t want to debate anything, or why I won�t even try to suggest a restaurant for the three of us to eat at. Two hours of screaming match over that one. Literally, two hours straight of screaming. As usual, she�s not getting that why I don�t want to engage myself in the usual futile battles is because where did I learn that they didn�t work? At her feet. Of course, when she talks about standing up to other people, she means like Hill or someone instead of herself. And expressing my opinion on controversial issues is not only worthless, but gets me in troubles that I don�t want to deal with. Then it went into how I don�t want to deal with anyone being mad at me- how I should be jumping through their hoops to make them happy and anticipate what they want from me instead of just trying to avoid anyone that�s mad at me forevermore. In short, I don�t Solve Problems with Decisive Action and Telling Someone What I Really Feel About Them.

I am so burned out on all of that that I no longer want to try any more. It doesn�t make me happy, it makes me more unhappy than when I stifle it all down. I�m tired of dealing with other people�s unhappiness with my actions. I don�t feel like I can give enough satisfaction when I try. I still try, mind you, I just seem to find other ways to fuck up and make them mad at me instead.

By the end of the night, I was a surly, burnt-out shell who knew already that she�d spend the rest of the week biting everyone�s head off. My tarot reading for the day was frighteningly accurate, eh?

About the only thing that made me feel better was reading Pamie's book, as coincidentally, I managed to uh, stumble across something I related to. You wouldn't have thought it would have helped, but it did. Hell, I'm about ready to write her a fan letter, except I know better than to write e-mail to famous net people unless they request that I do. They've already got thousands of e-mails they can't respond to, they certainly don't need me to add to their load.


previous entry - next entry
archives - current entry
hosted by DiaryLand.com