Many of my posts bring up the issue between my mother and I. It's not really a petty issue any more.
Well, I've always had a bit of issue with my mother. Recently, as the years went by, she became more and more unstable. I became more and more depressed. The year of 2010 was a pretty depressed year. I almost slid into clinical depression, but what the fuck, I didn't, so let's just skip right over that. Point is, having a pretty nice mother turn into an irrational bitch is not something that I was ready to deal with.
I also think that she became more and more religious. In fact, my whole family (with the exception of myself) became more and more religious. They went to church, prayed, offered money, etc. Well, to me, it was more like wasting time and money and effort. They could have had a bit of lie in on Sunday. Instead they went to church and listened to repetitive sermons and horrible analogies that didn't help the pastor's case at all (but none of the church-goers ever seem to realise it, sigh).
Today I'm here to talk about one particular issue in the bloody fucking SEA of issues I have with my mother. That is: my mother really likes to accuse me of lying. (Or maybe two things. My mother also likes to insult things that I like.)
Now, I can't really fault her for that. I am actually quite a liar, but if only she'd let me go out with my classmates, I wouldn't have had to lie. If only she'd given me a bit more money instead of giving me the bare minimum necessary to feed myself, I wouldn't have had to lie.
At the tender age of twelve, all I actually wanted was for her to be nice to my friends instead of insulting everyone I liked. (Behind their backs, of course. She insulted them to my face and expected me to agree with her.) Also I wanted like five bucks of emergency money in my wallet just in case. I was a bit paranoid back then too.
(Did I talk about the time during primary school when my parents confiscated my phone and gave me just enough money to buy a meal a day at school? I forgot my bus card and couldn't contact anyone. I didn't even have enough coins for the ride home. I spent an hour panicking and then just told the bus driver that I didn't have money. Point is, my parents don't actually think things through. This is proven by how they gave me back my phone immediately after that incident.)
Now, even back then, my mother liked to tell me that I was lying to her, even when I wasn't. It would be over the stupidest things - homework, friends, where I put something... Etc. You know, inane little things. She'd claim that I was lying and that I was keeping things from her.
(Side note: I think I found the source of my paranoia??)
Sometimes it'd be joking, sometime it'd be serious, but whenever she randomly accused me of lying, it set my teeth on edge. Damn, I wanted to throw things at her stupid head. But I didn't, of course. I didn't want to hurt her, and I didn't want to break anything that would cost money to repair.
(Well but she evidently didn't feel the same way. Did I tell you about the time when she smashed a few of my things? Hit me a few times? With coat hangers? Or just her hands - that was pretty painful and left quite a few bruises.)
Basically - if she thought that everything I said was a lie, then she shouldn't be talking to me. During a certain period of time she would ask me a question, and whatever I said, she'd claim that it was a lie. It was so bloody irritating. She was my mother. She wasn't supposed to accuse me without basis for simple things.
She actually made me quite anxious. During that time she also started insulting things I liked. Like Japanese music. She'd say it was all horrible without even listening to it. She said my taste in books were bad. The clothes I picked out didn't look nice. The way I tied my hair was atrocious. My friends were lying little bastards.
Chinese can be a very creative language sometimes. (My mother speaks chinese exclusively.) Also quite a hurtful language.
I think, maybe, that she gave me anxiety issues. To this day, when I go outside, I feel like my clothes don't fit me, I look horrible, and generally I don't feel very comfortable with people looking at me. That's why I prefer going out with friends. If they said my clothes looked horrible, they'd also probably tell me what would look better. Instead of just leaving it at the insult, like my mother.
All right, back to the lying thing. The truth is, a large majority of the time, I wasn't even lying to her. It really hurt me when she accused me of lying. I was twelve. I barely even talked to boys. I was completely unprepared for my own mother being a paranoid bitch towards me. I didn't like it. I wanted my mother to hug me (actually, she doesn't hug me, and she doesn't compliment me either). Point is, I wanted her to be nice again.
Too bad! She became even bitchier and I became more depressed. When I came out of depression I decided that she was a stupid bitch and I wasn't going to let her make me cry any more. (That was a failure, by the way. Don't underestimate how painful your mother can make your life.) But still. After that I got over the hurt considerably faster than before.
That was when I was thirteen.
I thought she was better for a while. I thought she was going to be a nice, okay-ish, semi-normal sort of mother again. I thought I could go back to joking with her. (Shopping with her is still excruciatingly painful. I would go with my father 10/10 my father knows my taste in clothes better than her, and he hasn't gone shopping with me since I was five.)
Okay, point is: my mother spends a hell lot of time with me, but she doesn't know me as well as my father, whom I maybe see for two hours every night.
Anyway, turns out that she's becoming a bit unhinged lately again. Like, ever since two months ago. Today she kind of accused me of keeping things from her. Today she said that she couldn't have said that without some basis for it. And when I proved that she could ("Dad, you're keeping things from me" - I had no basis for that) she said that she doesn't want to tell me the basis for her accusation.
(Edit: I think I went off topic right about here. I think.)
This was right after I found out that there was a bastard reporting my facebook activities to my parents. The religious misguided do-gooder kind of person, I guess. I'm fine with keeping religion the FUCK out of my relationship with my parents, but apparently my parents aren't okay with that.
My dad said that until I was of age, I would still have to go to church with them. The age for reaffirming your devotion to Christ (I was baptized young, and baptized children had to confirm it again) in this church was fifteen. I said I didn't want to reaffirm some bloody thing that was forced upon me at the age where all I wanted was to be the same as my friends. In fact, I had a screaming match with my parents a few months before I turned fourteen. I believe I said these exact words: "I don't believe in your god."
They tried to prod me into going to church with them every bloody Sunday until I turned fifteen. My mother would get angry and throw books up at me (I slept in the top bunk of a double decker, back then) regardless of whether they hit me or not.
Back to the issue at hand: my parents are some of the most naively blind Christians ever. They think Christianity is da shit and never questioned it after they were introduced to it at the age of thirty. Or something. Their point-blank refusal to examine their faith is
REALLY
FUCKING
FRUSTRATING
and sometimes I just wanted to hit myself on the head a few times, just so that I can pass out and escape the tedious, circular arguments.
Anyway, they're the naively blind sort of Christians, but sometimes my mother is just a bitch, plain and simple. She'd talk to me about my grades and god and facebook and religion
AND
basically all she wanted to say was that my grades should be higher. Same with my father. They can't simplify to save their life.
I have a headache.
I really hate people who can't look at themselves objectively. People who are content swimming in circles inside their own brain. Like my mother.
I'd like to just end this post now.
In summary, my mother makes me feel like horseshit, and I'd rather eat twenty lemons than spend a minute with her.
Also sometimes I look up stories from kids who are actually abused, and I tell myself that "hey this ain't so bad, they deal with worse, I can get through this shit". Except sometimes my parents kind of just don't care, and it doesn't matter how much better my life is, I just want to curl up and cry.
This is Asia. Family problems stay in the family. You ignore them until you can move out. No one will call your bloody hotlines. Your friends will be really nice and make you feel a lot better, but that's about it.
I'm tired of being put down all the time. There's a limit to much verbal abuse one can endure from one's own mother. I'm not going to cut and I'm not going to kill myself. But I AM going to get very angry, and very depressed. And that is not very nice.
30 December 2012
I don't think I've ever been this ready to cut someone out of my life
30 december 2012
Remember that post, long ago, where I talked about some pathetic woman who was offended by me and my anti-religion-ness?
This time, someone on my facebook friend list just tattletaled to my parents again. I rather suspect someone who knows my family personally and goes to the same church. I have a message for that person: what an utterly despicable thing to do.
I'm sure many of you know the playground rules: tattletales are to be avoided. Tattletales are not to be trusted. And if someone tattles, the next day they'll find themselves with fewer friends than yesterday.
Perhaps that adult didn't consider this tattletaling. Perhaps the adult, with his or her misguided notions, thought that it would help me.
Here's a tip, Tattletaler: I find it rather disgusting to tattletale with the intention to help. If you want to be an upright person, tattletaling is rather defeating the point. That's disgusting. That's hypocritical, and you've never even paused to consider it.
If someone tattletales in malice, or for gossip, I don't mind. I understand it. Of course, I won't like them very much, but there's little that I find more disgusting than misguided do-gooders whose good intentions wipe out every trace of humanity from their brains.
I despise people trying to force help upon me. I absolutely despise it, and my personal hell would consist of those empty-headed do-gooders who are so deeply entrenched in themselves that they'll never see outside their own brain.
Let me explain. If I were to attempt to prevent someone from committing suicide, I would stand beside them and chat. I would try to empathize. To put it simply, I would attempt to resonate on the same frequency. I won't tell them about those who will miss them. I won't tell them that life will get better. I'll ask them about their reasons for it all.
In other words, I'll make it clear what I'm going to do, and do it in a way that makes me seem like one of them. There's a huge difference between speaking from the inside and speaking from the outside. Someone who speaks from the outside comes across as self-obsessed and little patronizing, and sometimes even idiotic.
[post is stopped because I'm too emotional to write anything coherent. Will be updated when I am less angry and my killer headache is gone. Right now I will write an angry post about my mother, and I won't have to worry about being diplomatic or sarcastic because she's a bitch and I fucking hate her. And that's the truth. I know it.]
Edit: Okay never mind I give up.
Remember that post, long ago, where I talked about some pathetic woman who was offended by me and my anti-religion-ness?
This time, someone on my facebook friend list just tattletaled to my parents again. I rather suspect someone who knows my family personally and goes to the same church. I have a message for that person: what an utterly despicable thing to do.
I'm sure many of you know the playground rules: tattletales are to be avoided. Tattletales are not to be trusted. And if someone tattles, the next day they'll find themselves with fewer friends than yesterday.
Perhaps that adult didn't consider this tattletaling. Perhaps the adult, with his or her misguided notions, thought that it would help me.
Here's a tip, Tattletaler: I find it rather disgusting to tattletale with the intention to help. If you want to be an upright person, tattletaling is rather defeating the point. That's disgusting. That's hypocritical, and you've never even paused to consider it.
If someone tattletales in malice, or for gossip, I don't mind. I understand it. Of course, I won't like them very much, but there's little that I find more disgusting than misguided do-gooders whose good intentions wipe out every trace of humanity from their brains.
I despise people trying to force help upon me. I absolutely despise it, and my personal hell would consist of those empty-headed do-gooders who are so deeply entrenched in themselves that they'll never see outside their own brain.
Let me explain. If I were to attempt to prevent someone from committing suicide, I would stand beside them and chat. I would try to empathize. To put it simply, I would attempt to resonate on the same frequency. I won't tell them about those who will miss them. I won't tell them that life will get better. I'll ask them about their reasons for it all.
In other words, I'll make it clear what I'm going to do, and do it in a way that makes me seem like one of them. There's a huge difference between speaking from the inside and speaking from the outside. Someone who speaks from the outside comes across as self-obsessed and little patronizing, and sometimes even idiotic.
[post is stopped because I'm too emotional to write anything coherent. Will be updated when I am less angry and my killer headache is gone. Right now I will write an angry post about my mother, and I won't have to worry about being diplomatic or sarcastic because she's a bitch and I fucking hate her. And that's the truth. I know it.]
Edit: Okay never mind I give up.
22 December 2012
About Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, and the creeping sense of foreboding it left me with
*IF YOU PLAN ON READING THE BOOK, SUSPEND BELIEF AND DO NOT STOP SUSPENDING BELIEF. DO NOT QUESTION ANYTHING ABOUT THE BOOK.
Last night I read a book - Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, the debut novel by Ransom Riggs.
Basically, the book is about a boy in modern times, whose grandfather tells him fantastically unbelievable stories about children who can fly and can turn invisible, etc. What happens next is that his grandfather is killed brutally, by some strange creatures (the official report is wild animals) and then the boy goes on a trip across the Atlantic Ocean to find the truth, or closure, or whatever.
It's a good book, very nice. The atmosphere kind of wraps around you, and you keep flipping the pages. Of course, the pictures helped with that effect. I enjoyed it quite a lot.
Then again there are certain things that tick me off. Those things about the book irritate me. It makes me angry because it's not explained, and it keeps niggling away at me.
SPOILER ALERT
Two things: the ending, and the entire 'loop' theory.
No wait, three. The adult-children bother me too.
The peculiar children live in a loop started by Miss Peregrine, repeating the day of September third over and over again. For about eighty years, apparently?
One thing that bothers me is that the loop apparently stretches across the entire world or something. It's not limited to a particular physical landscape. It doesn't have a fixed entry point. (The protagonist - I forgot his name, but that's not very important - enters through the cairn every time, I think, but apparently the wights in the submarine, at the end, entered through another point? What the fuck?)
That's not okay. It's like the author made up a half-assed fantasy world, and then drew vivid characters. It's a but like... Drawing incredibly detailed flowers, and then splashing some blue and green around for the sky and grass.
Maybe it's supposed to add to the atmosphere, but not for me. It made my experience very frustrating. It's like a camera that refuse to focus no matter what you do to it.
Another point that bothers me is the ending. The protagonist gives up his time with little to no angst at all. From what I see, he's just "oh... There's nothing much for me here... And the peculiars need me... Okay!"
That's not okay. That is very not okay. I don't care how hardened and disillusioned and cynical you are, no one gives up everything that they've ever known just for a motley bunch of strange adult-kids that they've known for three months max.
You might have a hero complex or whatever, but you'll still feel a certain amount of angst about leaving your entire universe with next to no hope of going back.
The protagonist here seems to make a difficult decision and then promptly forget all about it. I don't know why. Maybe it's to prove a point. Maybe to subtly emphasize a subtle point. Whatever, his non-reaction pisses me off.
Also the loop-hopping thing? Ridiculous. I don't claim to know about temporal whatever, but it seems to me that the author's mixing linear and non-linear timelines without explaining how they work or interact.
I imagine that if you could choose when to step out of a loop, then the protagonist could just have stepped out a few hours after he went in, sparing himself the where-were-you lecture. Hell, if you could CHOOSE when to step out, then you could spent a few centuries inside and step out BEFORE the time when you went in. There seems to be no effect at all. You don't de-age.
Ohhhh, holy shit, wait a second. That is a CHEAT. That is a CHEAT CODE, that is a NASTY LITTLE CHEAT. If the protagonist steps into the loop, and then spends a few centuries in it, then he could presumably step back into his own time. Same age, same time, a few centuries of experience.
Think of it this way: a straight line, which is our time. And a bubble attached to September third. From present time, hook a line into that bubble.
This implies that you can hook a line from anywhere into that bubble. That means that any time between the start of the bubble and modern time is FREE GAME. That's, I don't know... You could go into the bubble at 2005, and come out into 1990 to visit your deceased dad. Or something.
In my limited view, that bubble is a phenomenal CHEAT and should not exist. It's a cheat for everyone who didn't join the bubble at the start.
And the author doesn't even try to placate our anxiety. He's like, "whatever, let's go on with the plot, the laws of this universe doesn't matter, I'll tell you more when I've figured out how to twist it to fit the plot".
Um.
I'm actually plotting this out as I write. Any epiphanies I get is real-time. Thus might not be very coherent. Timelines are confusing. My head hurts. Please tell me if I've gotten anything wrong.
Okay, last thing that bothers me: the adult-children. As I was reading the book, I felt that there was something very wrong with something. I couldn't figure it out, it was like background noise. Annoying background noise.
The realisation came when I read the part about them burying Victor, at the very end.
They (the adult-children, the peculiars) had issues that would warrant immediate hospitalisation and months and years of therapy. They seem fine.
They've been stuck in the loop for eighty years. That would drive me stir-crazy, I'd commit suicide. They seem fine.
They mutilate animals and keep corpses in rooms and torment the townspeople and
ESSENTIALLY, they have normalised extremely abnormal behaviour. That is not good. That is not okay. Miss Peregrine seems nice and strict and like a normal schoolteacher. SHE IS NOT OKAY. I cannot emphasize this enough - SHE started the loop, kept them unchanging, fed them morbid news from the future, treated their abnormalities as normal (though really there isn't another way to treat it, in this situation), turned a blind eye to most of their increasingly sadistic and fucked-up past times...
Maybe that was the only thing to do, though. She couldn't treat them as freaks and expect them to coexist for eighty years. She couldn't expect them to accept eighty years without entertainment. No one expects children to be nice when their victims will forget everything the next day.
But this actually brings up another point that I forgot - what about the townspeople? They're not in the loop, since they remember nothing. They're like memories that are blown to sand the moment the loop resets. Was it really necessary to include them in the loop? How far does the loop extend, anyway? If you went to china, while in the loop, would you see the same thing? Memories repeating? How do loops every coexist? Does every loop include all the loops that have been created before it or what?
This is making me a little angry. It all feels a little half-assed and half-assed books make me want to rip it up because it's a waste of paper. At least shitty fanfiction is free and digital.
What I imagine is that they've finished a few drafts of the book, and someone goes "okay that's it, there's only the loop explanation left. Add that in somewhere and it'll be read to print", and then someone else says "okay" and prints it anyway because who listens to editors anyway?
This book left me with a feeling that the sky had just permanently turned purple. And that it's always been purple. And that you're the only delusional one who thinks that it should be blue.
Let me say this again: it's a good book. I enjoyed it.
It just left me with a subtly uncomfortable feeling that developed into full-fledged panic when I realised that it was wrong! everything was wrong! this is wrong wrong wrong wrong OH MY FUCKING GOD I FEEL NAUSEOUS.
This book should come with a warning: if you have a vivid imagination and think too much, you will feel uncomfortable and highly creeped out, and if you read it at night, and then start logically THINKING about the book, you will have a hard time falling asleep.
Moral of the post: read the book, enjoy it, FOR FUCK'S SAKE DON'T ANALYSE IT.
/EDIT/: the word is "bizarre".
Last night I read a book - Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, the debut novel by Ransom Riggs.
Basically, the book is about a boy in modern times, whose grandfather tells him fantastically unbelievable stories about children who can fly and can turn invisible, etc. What happens next is that his grandfather is killed brutally, by some strange creatures (the official report is wild animals) and then the boy goes on a trip across the Atlantic Ocean to find the truth, or closure, or whatever.
It's a good book, very nice. The atmosphere kind of wraps around you, and you keep flipping the pages. Of course, the pictures helped with that effect. I enjoyed it quite a lot.
Then again there are certain things that tick me off. Those things about the book irritate me. It makes me angry because it's not explained, and it keeps niggling away at me.
SPOILER ALERT
Two things: the ending, and the entire 'loop' theory.
No wait, three. The adult-children bother me too.
The peculiar children live in a loop started by Miss Peregrine, repeating the day of September third over and over again. For about eighty years, apparently?
One thing that bothers me is that the loop apparently stretches across the entire world or something. It's not limited to a particular physical landscape. It doesn't have a fixed entry point. (The protagonist - I forgot his name, but that's not very important - enters through the cairn every time, I think, but apparently the wights in the submarine, at the end, entered through another point? What the fuck?)
That's not okay. It's like the author made up a half-assed fantasy world, and then drew vivid characters. It's a but like... Drawing incredibly detailed flowers, and then splashing some blue and green around for the sky and grass.
Maybe it's supposed to add to the atmosphere, but not for me. It made my experience very frustrating. It's like a camera that refuse to focus no matter what you do to it.
Another point that bothers me is the ending. The protagonist gives up his time with little to no angst at all. From what I see, he's just "oh... There's nothing much for me here... And the peculiars need me... Okay!"
That's not okay. That is very not okay. I don't care how hardened and disillusioned and cynical you are, no one gives up everything that they've ever known just for a motley bunch of strange adult-kids that they've known for three months max.
You might have a hero complex or whatever, but you'll still feel a certain amount of angst about leaving your entire universe with next to no hope of going back.
The protagonist here seems to make a difficult decision and then promptly forget all about it. I don't know why. Maybe it's to prove a point. Maybe to subtly emphasize a subtle point. Whatever, his non-reaction pisses me off.
Also the loop-hopping thing? Ridiculous. I don't claim to know about temporal whatever, but it seems to me that the author's mixing linear and non-linear timelines without explaining how they work or interact.
I imagine that if you could choose when to step out of a loop, then the protagonist could just have stepped out a few hours after he went in, sparing himself the where-were-you lecture. Hell, if you could CHOOSE when to step out, then you could spent a few centuries inside and step out BEFORE the time when you went in. There seems to be no effect at all. You don't de-age.
Ohhhh, holy shit, wait a second. That is a CHEAT. That is a CHEAT CODE, that is a NASTY LITTLE CHEAT. If the protagonist steps into the loop, and then spends a few centuries in it, then he could presumably step back into his own time. Same age, same time, a few centuries of experience.
Think of it this way: a straight line, which is our time. And a bubble attached to September third. From present time, hook a line into that bubble.
This implies that you can hook a line from anywhere into that bubble. That means that any time between the start of the bubble and modern time is FREE GAME. That's, I don't know... You could go into the bubble at 2005, and come out into 1990 to visit your deceased dad. Or something.
In my limited view, that bubble is a phenomenal CHEAT and should not exist. It's a cheat for everyone who didn't join the bubble at the start.
And the author doesn't even try to placate our anxiety. He's like, "whatever, let's go on with the plot, the laws of this universe doesn't matter, I'll tell you more when I've figured out how to twist it to fit the plot".
Um.
I'm actually plotting this out as I write. Any epiphanies I get is real-time. Thus might not be very coherent. Timelines are confusing. My head hurts. Please tell me if I've gotten anything wrong.
Okay, last thing that bothers me: the adult-children. As I was reading the book, I felt that there was something very wrong with something. I couldn't figure it out, it was like background noise. Annoying background noise.
The realisation came when I read the part about them burying Victor, at the very end.
They (the adult-children, the peculiars) had issues that would warrant immediate hospitalisation and months and years of therapy. They seem fine.
They've been stuck in the loop for eighty years. That would drive me stir-crazy, I'd commit suicide. They seem fine.
They mutilate animals and keep corpses in rooms and torment the townspeople and
ESSENTIALLY, they have normalised extremely abnormal behaviour. That is not good. That is not okay. Miss Peregrine seems nice and strict and like a normal schoolteacher. SHE IS NOT OKAY. I cannot emphasize this enough - SHE started the loop, kept them unchanging, fed them morbid news from the future, treated their abnormalities as normal (though really there isn't another way to treat it, in this situation), turned a blind eye to most of their increasingly sadistic and fucked-up past times...
Maybe that was the only thing to do, though. She couldn't treat them as freaks and expect them to coexist for eighty years. She couldn't expect them to accept eighty years without entertainment. No one expects children to be nice when their victims will forget everything the next day.
But this actually brings up another point that I forgot - what about the townspeople? They're not in the loop, since they remember nothing. They're like memories that are blown to sand the moment the loop resets. Was it really necessary to include them in the loop? How far does the loop extend, anyway? If you went to china, while in the loop, would you see the same thing? Memories repeating? How do loops every coexist? Does every loop include all the loops that have been created before it or what?
This is making me a little angry. It all feels a little half-assed and half-assed books make me want to rip it up because it's a waste of paper. At least shitty fanfiction is free and digital.
What I imagine is that they've finished a few drafts of the book, and someone goes "okay that's it, there's only the loop explanation left. Add that in somewhere and it'll be read to print", and then someone else says "okay" and prints it anyway because who listens to editors anyway?
This book left me with a feeling that the sky had just permanently turned purple. And that it's always been purple. And that you're the only delusional one who thinks that it should be blue.
Let me say this again: it's a good book. I enjoyed it.
It just left me with a subtly uncomfortable feeling that developed into full-fledged panic when I realised that it was wrong! everything was wrong! this is wrong wrong wrong wrong OH MY FUCKING GOD I FEEL NAUSEOUS.
This book should come with a warning: if you have a vivid imagination and think too much, you will feel uncomfortable and highly creeped out, and if you read it at night, and then start logically THINKING about the book, you will have a hard time falling asleep.
Moral of the post: read the book, enjoy it, FOR FUCK'S SAKE DON'T ANALYSE IT.
/EDIT/: the word is "bizarre".
18 December 2012
this is actually a lot less serious than it sounds. do not be alarmed. this is a rant.
Sometimes I think about calling the cops on my mother, but I realise that it would fuck things up spectacularly, to the point where up and down aren't fixed positions anymore. "Normal" would cease to be an option, and I might as well be jumping from the frying pan straight into the fire. It's something like exchanging one unbearable problem for a lot of slightly less unbearable ones.
Point is, I don't think this unbearable problem is going to become any less unbearable for the foreseeable future. My mother... She's the kind of person who hears criticisms about herself and immediately denies them. Not once would she think about whether or not it's deserved. She doesn't really care about YOUR opinion of her, she has her OWN, and that's enough.
This means that she'll never change because of anyone or anything. This kind of means that the unbearable problem isn't getting any more bearable.
Today my mother had a screaming fit in the car, because my brother and I were fussing about something in the mall. She loves to tell others to die - things along the lines of 'your life is pointless', 'go and die', etc. My brother in the backseat started crying halfway through (she wasn't even screaming at him) and she just continued screaming and spitting into my ear.
Mountains out of molehills?
Well.
A few years back my mother used to be really violent. She'd get angry and hit me with things, and I'd get bruises and stuff. Sometimes her nails broke the skin, etc. We'd have screaming fits at each other, and she'd hit anything she could reach. (That was about the time I started the blog.)
Of course, that passed. Then again, maybe not.
Today I got out of the car during her screaming fit. I couldn't stand it any more - I didn't feel guilty or anything, more of ... hurt and disgusted. Having your mother call you a useless lump who should die isn't a pleasant feeling. Also I was disgusted by how she could completely disregard my crying brother. Anyone who can effortlessly - I do mean effortlessly, it was like she hadn't even noticed him crying - ignore a crying child is... Well, not fit to be a parent.
So I stood out there in the car park. Obviously, my mother wanted to leave, but she couldn't leave me behind (all I had was a phone, also a basic maternal instinct not to dump her kid outside). The pathetic thing was, she couldn't even be bothered to get out of the car herself. She sent my brother to get me back. In fact, my brother ran back and forth like a messenger, all because she's a shitty mother.
In the end, she resorted to screaming at me across the car park. And then manhandling me into the car.
This is what I meant by "maybe not" (refer to previous paragraphs).
I have a bruise on the outside of my left thigh, which makes it hard to sit properly, and several scratches on my right upper arm. Like, she scratched a layer of skin right off. And she's the one who keeps going on about me and my sharp nails. (Then again, she doesn't exactly do any self-examining, or think before she speaks. I, for one, would never threaten someone with things I'd never actually do.)
I don't know what's going on in her head, but I'm sick of her crap. She's an utterly disagreeable woman, and I hate spending any time with her at all. You love your mom? Great. I love mine a whole lot less than you love yours.
I hate contradictory people who don't even know that they're contradictory. In other words, I hate oblivious people who won't accept that they're oblivious, even when spoon-fed evidence of their obliviousness. In other words, my mother makes me so fucking angry I want to smash my head against a sharp metal spike.
That is not exaggeration. I do want to do that sometimes. It doesn't mean that I will do that.
I am so sick of everything. I fucking hate monotony. Also I hate physical inconveniences. Showering with one less patch of skin fucking hurts.
(I debated about attaching pictures of my arm, but decided against it because it's not exactly easy to maneuvre a camera with my left hand. I am completely right-handed.)
Point is, I don't think this unbearable problem is going to become any less unbearable for the foreseeable future. My mother... She's the kind of person who hears criticisms about herself and immediately denies them. Not once would she think about whether or not it's deserved. She doesn't really care about YOUR opinion of her, she has her OWN, and that's enough.
This means that she'll never change because of anyone or anything. This kind of means that the unbearable problem isn't getting any more bearable.
Today my mother had a screaming fit in the car, because my brother and I were fussing about something in the mall. She loves to tell others to die - things along the lines of 'your life is pointless', 'go and die', etc. My brother in the backseat started crying halfway through (she wasn't even screaming at him) and she just continued screaming and spitting into my ear.
Mountains out of molehills?
Well.
A few years back my mother used to be really violent. She'd get angry and hit me with things, and I'd get bruises and stuff. Sometimes her nails broke the skin, etc. We'd have screaming fits at each other, and she'd hit anything she could reach. (That was about the time I started the blog.)
Of course, that passed. Then again, maybe not.
Today I got out of the car during her screaming fit. I couldn't stand it any more - I didn't feel guilty or anything, more of ... hurt and disgusted. Having your mother call you a useless lump who should die isn't a pleasant feeling. Also I was disgusted by how she could completely disregard my crying brother. Anyone who can effortlessly - I do mean effortlessly, it was like she hadn't even noticed him crying - ignore a crying child is... Well, not fit to be a parent.
So I stood out there in the car park. Obviously, my mother wanted to leave, but she couldn't leave me behind (all I had was a phone, also a basic maternal instinct not to dump her kid outside). The pathetic thing was, she couldn't even be bothered to get out of the car herself. She sent my brother to get me back. In fact, my brother ran back and forth like a messenger, all because she's a shitty mother.
In the end, she resorted to screaming at me across the car park. And then manhandling me into the car.
This is what I meant by "maybe not" (refer to previous paragraphs).
I have a bruise on the outside of my left thigh, which makes it hard to sit properly, and several scratches on my right upper arm. Like, she scratched a layer of skin right off. And she's the one who keeps going on about me and my sharp nails. (Then again, she doesn't exactly do any self-examining, or think before she speaks. I, for one, would never threaten someone with things I'd never actually do.)
I don't know what's going on in her head, but I'm sick of her crap. She's an utterly disagreeable woman, and I hate spending any time with her at all. You love your mom? Great. I love mine a whole lot less than you love yours.
I hate contradictory people who don't even know that they're contradictory. In other words, I hate oblivious people who won't accept that they're oblivious, even when spoon-fed evidence of their obliviousness. In other words, my mother makes me so fucking angry I want to smash my head against a sharp metal spike.
That is not exaggeration. I do want to do that sometimes. It doesn't mean that I will do that.
I am so sick of everything. I fucking hate monotony. Also I hate physical inconveniences. Showering with one less patch of skin fucking hurts.
(I debated about attaching pictures of my arm, but decided against it because it's not exactly easy to maneuvre a camera with my left hand. I am completely right-handed.)
4 December 2012
so I realised that I have been negligent
Haven't posted anything for quite some time, I believe. If the last post's in the last month, then it's time to move my ass and post something else.
So here's a fic-thing. This is maybe what my drunken ramblings would look like if I were drunk. Which I'm not. Drunk, I mean. Idk.
...
It's cold. He likes the cold. Well, not really, not quite. He isn't sure if he likes it, or the warmth that seems so much more intense in the midst of it. He likes comfort, the assurance that there is something left for him.
It used to be that he'd press his soft, thick blankets to his chest, soaking in the warmth and trying to somehow push the downy feathers through his ribcage, all the way through his spine. There was a hollow aching pain somewhere inside. The sort that felt like a black void. The blankets helped.
But he'd thrown the well-worn blankets away a few years ago. In a fit of self-loathing, he'd decided that he didn't deserve anything like that. So now he sleeps alone with a thin barely-blanket over his knees.
He'd turn the a/c punishingly low each night, shivering miserably and squirming when the cold wind blew over his skin. He doesn't know why he does that. There's no reason for it, really. He hates himself for throwing away the blankets, so he tries to freeze himself; he hates himself for cold-acid air, so he doesn't buy any more blankets. It's just a childish, self-obsessed game of give and take.
He hates himself for that too. A deep, swirling pit of confused disgust.
And he hates that too, because it all makes no sense. Life has been good to him. Upper middle-class, two nice parents - a complete family with about enough money to afford a car and a large apartment. What else could he ask for?
But everything was gentle in its mediocrity. It was like body temperature bathwater - good enough for anyone to use, but barely there and not enough. Not much of anything at all.
That sums up his entire life. Barely there and not enough. There might have been something more, but normalcy has spoiled him, rotted him from the inside-out, outside-in. As he breathes in the frigid poison air each night, falling asleep to the sound of his rattling bones, he scratches at his arms. Digs into the skin cell by cell. Gouges out thin milk-trails of white, invisible in the darkness. Outside-in, inside-out.
Still normal. The tracks fade before he's even fully asleep. He'll never pick up a razor. Never stick a finger down his throat. No matter how pervasive his self-loathing, he'll never make a single cut. That's overboard. That's overnormal. That's not allowed.
Instead he'll turn down the the a/c even further, pinch his freezing toes with his freezing fingers, rot his soul and claw out his eyes.
He's crying. Life's been good to him. He has no right to cry.
...
I think that was about 450 words.
So here's a fic-thing. This is maybe what my drunken ramblings would look like if I were drunk. Which I'm not. Drunk, I mean. Idk.
...
It's cold. He likes the cold. Well, not really, not quite. He isn't sure if he likes it, or the warmth that seems so much more intense in the midst of it. He likes comfort, the assurance that there is something left for him.
It used to be that he'd press his soft, thick blankets to his chest, soaking in the warmth and trying to somehow push the downy feathers through his ribcage, all the way through his spine. There was a hollow aching pain somewhere inside. The sort that felt like a black void. The blankets helped.
But he'd thrown the well-worn blankets away a few years ago. In a fit of self-loathing, he'd decided that he didn't deserve anything like that. So now he sleeps alone with a thin barely-blanket over his knees.
He'd turn the a/c punishingly low each night, shivering miserably and squirming when the cold wind blew over his skin. He doesn't know why he does that. There's no reason for it, really. He hates himself for throwing away the blankets, so he tries to freeze himself; he hates himself for cold-acid air, so he doesn't buy any more blankets. It's just a childish, self-obsessed game of give and take.
He hates himself for that too. A deep, swirling pit of confused disgust.
And he hates that too, because it all makes no sense. Life has been good to him. Upper middle-class, two nice parents - a complete family with about enough money to afford a car and a large apartment. What else could he ask for?
But everything was gentle in its mediocrity. It was like body temperature bathwater - good enough for anyone to use, but barely there and not enough. Not much of anything at all.
That sums up his entire life. Barely there and not enough. There might have been something more, but normalcy has spoiled him, rotted him from the inside-out, outside-in. As he breathes in the frigid poison air each night, falling asleep to the sound of his rattling bones, he scratches at his arms. Digs into the skin cell by cell. Gouges out thin milk-trails of white, invisible in the darkness. Outside-in, inside-out.
Still normal. The tracks fade before he's even fully asleep. He'll never pick up a razor. Never stick a finger down his throat. No matter how pervasive his self-loathing, he'll never make a single cut. That's overboard. That's overnormal. That's not allowed.
Instead he'll turn down the the a/c even further, pinch his freezing toes with his freezing fingers, rot his soul and claw out his eyes.
He's crying. Life's been good to him. He has no right to cry.
...
I think that was about 450 words.
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