Andare, Partire, Tornare


Mommy Dearest

Took today off, although I wasn't actually feeling all that bad. But I could see myself sitting at my computer, hacking pathetically and sneezing on the monitor. No thanks. I went to bed yesterday at six pm, and didn't wake up until six thirty the next morning, so I suppose I needed the rest. I guess it's a good thing that I'm not making the State College pilgrimage this weekend, because I would be no fun at all. Nobody likes Typhoid Mary when she comes to sleep on your sofa. And you can quote me on that.

Spent the day mindlessly in front of the computer, either surfing or working on my newest Anita Blake fic, which I don't actually have a whole plot for. I'm trying to be like LKH, and work organically! (Pardon me while I laugh) I'll see what comes, but god damn it, if the characters don't offer me a good plot by themselves, I'll come up with one and ruthlessly inflict it on them.

Mom says she's purchasing a farmhouse in Front Royal. That is, if they accept her offer. I'll believe it when I see it. This has a good potential for me and Bemo - the possibility of renting out that house. On the other hand, do I want to rent again from the woman who has thrown me out of the house twice? Once over a burger, and once over a pot of chili? (What is it with my family and food?)

I shall explain. My mom had a habit of "throwing me out," which involved her yelling and telling me to leave (sometimes out of the car), me leaving the house for a couple of hours, and then returning, whereupon she'd expect me to apologise, and I would, and grovel a bit, and then everything would be ok until the next time. She never expected me to actually leave for good, and I never did. Until one day, when dad was cooking burgers out on the back deck, I happened to enter the house eating my burger. Mom had not yet gotten hers yet, because dad was stacking all the condiments she likes on it, while I like mine plain. I got the lecture about respecting elders and serving them before you serve yourself, I got "smart" with her, and got kicked out. Went to a friends house for a couple of nights. Discovered that there was a place for me to live if I wanted it. Went back to the house, mom thought I had just returned as usual, and had hysterics when I packed up and left for good. THe whole thing - crying, flinging herself in front of the door, having Becca fling herself in front of the door, and then, when I got myself situated in a room in a house of a friend, frantic phone calls at late hours of the night, alternately pleading and berating me. I got so jumpy that even to this day, the sound of the phone ringing makes me nervous.

The second time, Bemo and I were concerned about money, and I made a bad judgement call. We moved in to the basement of her house. About a month later, Bemo made some of his special chili. After three days in the fridge, mom pitched it - almost a full pot - because it had "gone bad." Bemo got upset, mom got hysterical and abusive towards him, he got angry (Bemo does have an explosive temper - loud but not long-lasting). She ended up calling the cops, telling them all about her diabetes (she doesn't have it, she's borderline but never developed the disease) and that we "might have knives downstairs." We had two old knives that were being used as letter openers.

The cops came, were incredulous ("But chili needs time to sit, it gets better that way!") and calmed her down. We moved out shortly thereafter, and then ended up in State College.

Needless to say, my relationship with her has much improved since I have left the house and only have to see her on rare occasions. Although she is constantly pestering me about having children, and sending me scare stories about relatives whose ovaries fell out of their body when they turned thirty. Why can't people who really want children, like Caerula, get them? Bemo and I are selfish people, in that we don't want anybody else intruding on our relationship. Plus, we are in no way financially ready to have kids, adn then there's the fact that we both have big mental problems on either side of the family. Bemo is manic-depressive, and my mom is...well, she's a lot of things. Even her therapist wasn't positive. Lord only knows what kind of wacky-ass genes we'd be passing along to some poor unsuspecting child. Instead, we get my mother dropping "hints" at every occasion. Hints like "If you don't start having children now, you might find that you'll menapause early, and then you'll be sorry!" Maybe I'll be ready to think about children in five years. Maybe not. But I don't need her breathing down my neck about it!

Phew. This entry has been positively mom-drenched. Maybe I should be the one in therapy. I've always used my journal for that purpose, actually. My earliest written one was used to work out my anger and frustration whenever my parents would have their raging fights. Writing it out always soothed me, especially when I could draw horrible little drawings that were all jagged and angry, in the margins of the writing. I should hunt that journal down and put some exerpts up on here, just as a compare and contrast exercise. Hmm. Idea.

10:52 p.m. - 2002-01-18


previous - next

latest entry

about me





random entry

other diaries: