Ah. I think I just exhaled for the first time in weeks.
My parents just left to GO HOME… we weren’t meant to be close and cuddly. That’s for sure.
And, the department chair at the state university who hired me for last fall sent me an email explaining that he can’t afford to give me classes because the uni cut out sparsely filled courses. In other words, he’s being too nice to tell me that a former classmate has taken my spot. I knew it was going to happen, and I don’t really care. Remember J-Boy from grad school? He’s finished his course work for his PhD… and naturally came back to work. So, I emailed him back, to let the department chair off the hook, “I have three classes at the community college in the fall and they scheduled them so I will be working 4 days a week and will not be able to take classes at the uni regardless. Thank you for thinking about me, perhaps we can work together in the future. -Herstory”
Actually, they do not know that my house is on the market. I didn’t want to cut myself off in the event that they would have classes for me to teach. C’est le vie… I’ll live. Actually, I don’t like the 45-minute drive to get there by 8am… Even though I’ll miss the paycheck, the drive I have now is barely 5 minutes. And, even though I don’t have an office, or working technology, it’s close to home and I don’t need to get #3 son a babysitter. So, it is what it is. I just wish he’d be honest with me… instead of trying to be diplomatic. I don’t have a PhD, nor will I probably ever get one. I’m the middle child in academia and I’ve resigned myself to being the pinch hitter for the PhD’s.
My relative, on Saturday, asked me what my pay was for the community college. I put it this way, “I wanted a job where I could have MORE students and less pay, so I went to the community college.” Let’s just say, I make less than a mortgage payment a month. And, even though I could “probably” make more teaching high school, I haven’t been very lucky doing so or even finding something. So, I’ll take my menial-paid position, out-dated technology, complacent students, and ridiculous parking because its something I seem to like a little bit. I just wish I were a better teacher. I am constantly researching information… and I know that I bog them down with minute specifics… but its the minute specifics that makes history interesting, at least to me.
That and my affinity for maps… and my disgust towards ANYONE who thinks that NJ is located along the PACIFIC OCEAN or that Britain is located in Africa. My goal, for crying out loud, is to teach my students WHERE New Jersey and Britain are located… if it kills me.
I remember middle and high school history class… we had to HAND-DRAW our maps. Even in elementary school, my teachers required hand-drawing. They didn’t care if you traced, they just wanted you to do it manually so that by doing it, you would learn where things were. I took great care to get the coastlines and borders drawn exactly (without tracing) so that it looked real. I even put in mountains, rivers, and capital cities. I appreciate having to do that.
Needless to say, I am working on lessons for the fall in the event that we do not sell. Nary a visitor since two weeks ago and I’m beginning to think that we’ll never sell… as though Jersey has this grip on us and refuses to relent. I’m like the anxious 18 year old who is DYING to get away from home and experience my own experiences. To start fresh and new, you know?
Yes, I realize it will take time. I’m far from patient, remember?
I’ve been thinking about writing again… however, when school’s in session, all I seem to write are lessons, PowerPoints, and comments about other people’s writing (aside from bitchy rants about how frustrated I am). I long to research and discover… I yearn for it. However, I’m not exactly sure what to write about. I had contemplated taking some of my stories here and expounding on them for a short-story or book, however, who would want to pay to read about my crazy life anyway? And, then there’s the fallout from the family and friends who may realize that I’ve been writing about them online and all of the headaches that go with it.
Even if I had an idea of what to write, when would I find the time? I don’t know… I feel like I’m stuck in neutral waiting for a gear shift.
I do know someone from high school who became a novelist… she has a [fake] writer’s name. Perhaps I should do the same. What would I call myself? (Insert suggestions in my comments area)
I’ll pick the one that makes me laugh… the hardest. 
Who would like to argue with me about why I care so goddamn much about what people think about me when I don’t WANT to care about it? I can give an answer for every argument… that’s my problem. I need to get over this anomosity towards my parents and my past and just move the hell on. Geez. I wouldn’t even want to hang out with myself now… I’m a huge downer, aren’t I? Why are you all still reading? Aren’t I frustrating? Don’t you just want to reach through your computer screens and slap me senseless? I DO… so, why would YOU guys be any different?
Yeah, yeah, yeah… I’m Queen’o the Negatives. I’ll get better… there’s no where lower to be than sad. And, frankly, I’m getting tired of this melancholy-meets-sad shit. I need to live a lil…
Needless to say, I felt a weight come off my shoulders after the graduation, party, and today with my parents going home. Two years ago, when they moved, I was sad because I felt abandoned. *I* wanted to be the one who moved away from them, not them from me. That wasn’t fair. That was a cheap shot. During the same time, I broke up a friendship that was one-sided and made me angry. This person told me that I needed a therapist because I was just ridiculous. (Yes, she said ridiculous. Another reason to not be friends with her.) I haven’t spoken to her, aside from bland hellos at weddings and showers. I do not call, email, purposedly bump into, or in any other fashion attempt to see her or speak to her. I had cut a few long-time friends loose the same time that my parents moved. I was cocooning for a few months, curled up on my couch, under a blanket, watching sad movies as an excuse to cry and use up all of the tissue resources.
So, a year ago, I went to a therapist after telling my regular doctor that I felt sad all of the time. The therapist was a nice older man, but the sessions were not very therapedic. (Therapudic? bah… whatever) Why was that? I had two jobs, making a LOT of money, and was happy. It seems that when I’m stuck on stupid, revving in neutral, or rolling backwards down a steep hill, I can’t manage to FEEL happy… much less fake it well. I hate that this emotional rollercoaster has planted itself firmly in my life. I always tried to fight it, promising myself that I would never become them… my mother, my aunt, my grandmothers (rest their souls) or at least, my father. I didn’t want to pretend to be someone that I wasn’t while out and about, making everyone my friends (whether they wanted me to or not), or doing this song and dance that would make people think I was a rockstar of my own little stage.
I’m not a rockstar. I’m the roadie. I carry the shit for those people who ARE the rockstars and it irritates me. I want to be the rockstar for a change, however, I’m not willing to create drama in order to move into that position.
For instance, as a kid, I didn’t rebel. Ever. I was too afraid of my parents for that. They were always so disappointed in me, even though I can boast now that I never had a detention OR a suspension… and I hear about this during my son’s party… about how I was the difficult child… the one who made them suffer and struggle… and it really pissed me off. I never crashed the car my parents bought for me because *I* was the child who never got anything handed to her. I babysat, slang pizza for two old perverts, was a cashier for a misogynistic pig, tried to sell over-priced clothing for a drug-crazed maniac, wore a “smokey the bear” hat in the mall, worked in a deli with another misogynistic pig who was not only a he-man-woman-hater but a perfectionist who wouldn’t shy away from screaming in your face and demeaning you in front of customers. I worked two jobs so that I could pay my bills, rent (yes, my parents charged me rent), and pay for college. And, a lot of my frustration grew from being the oldest child who was blamed for every goddamn thing her ADD brother did. Tried to burn down the neighbors house? It was MY fault for not watching him (I was in 7th grade and had a cast on my leg). Pulled a shotgun out on anyone who visited our house (including my friends)? My fault for not watching him. I have had a lot of responsibility put on me from a very VERY young age and have learned to not only be self-sufficient, but angry for having to be responsible for another person who obviously didn’t give a shit about what people thought about him.
Since my brother died over 19 years ago, my parents have put him on this golden platform with little museum lights shining on the WONDERFUL things he’s done.
I nicked the shield… by telling my mother that he regularly beat the living shit out of me when he was a teenager… and my bruises couldn’t be seen because I wore sleeves (even in the summer). She told me that I was exaggerating and laughed at me. This is the same woman who stood idly by when my father beat my brother almost to death when he was 7. I stood in the kitchen and watched him jank my brother off of his bed, throw him on the floor, and just punch and punch and punch. I was screaming for him to stop but he wouldn’t. I was frozen… and regret not calling the police on my father, however, that wouldn’t have done much. He knew all of the cops. [Herstory]’s dad would NEVER… he’s a fun party guy.
I lived in fear of my father. Anything below an A on my reportcard would result in an ass-beating. When I got a little older, I would scream and run and scream louder so he wouldn’t hit me. I figured if I screamed loudly, then he’d be too afraid that the neighbors would call the police. In hindsight, I can’t imagine him thinking that because the neighbors on either side of us were either alcoholics or alcoholics who beat their family.
Everyone loves my parents. I stew when I see crowds gather around them. I always have. I hate that I hate them and have so much anomosity towards them. Why couldn’t they just be regular people who loved me? I don’t know, to be honest. I think they blamed me for their having to marry.
Ok, imagine finding out that your dad knocked up your mother after they broke off their engagement when YOU are an unmarried pregnant girl of 22? “I wanted an abortion,” my mother tells me, “because I didn’t want you. Your dad made me marry him because he wanted a son.”
BIG DISAPPOINTMENT…
So, my entire life I have had to listen to “your dad wanted a boy but had you instead” and it confused me. When I was smaller, I remember my dad and I always hanging out together. He’d play with me and take me places. What happened? My brother was born… we were still close. My brother was diagnosed with a bleeding disorder… he still did things with me. Maybe it wasn’t MY fault they fought my entire life. Maybe he was mad at HER for getting pregnant or mad at himself for marrying her. I don’t know. I just wish that I didn’t feel the burden of their crazy relationship… and responsible for it not being a good one.
Maybe that’s why my grandmothers would take me for weekends and spend a lot of time with me. My brother demanded a lot of attention as a kid because of his condition, and almost died when he was a toddler. I was maybe 7 or 8 years old when I was sent to live with family… months and months of not living at home really did affect me. My grandmother once told me that she made my mother come spend time with me (leaving my brother in the hospital with another relative) because I wouldn’t stop crying… day… night… just sitting in front of the television. She told me that she made my mother come and get me for a few hours because I would just cry and it broke her heart.
Does that explain why I always feel alone, even if I’m in a crowd? I don’t know.
I can’t do therapy again. I don’t know if I’ll be able to speak about this stuff aloud… the writing of it all just makes me more emotional than I want to be. I don’t even know why I’m writing this… it’s just coming out in a wave of emotional-release that’ll make me feel better. I think. I hope.
Needless to say, when I’m around my parents, I feel all of this anger and hatred for them. I hate that my mother didn’t divorce him and find a man who’d treat her well. I hate that my father makes me cry and feel like shit. I hate that they didn’t think I was special and put all of their energies into a kid who would be destructive without caring.
So, when people label me… stupid, ridiciulous, a crybaby, or angry they have no idea how I feel. I will hold things in until I can’t… then it comes flowing out in writing, verbally, or via anger. I’m angry. I admit it. And, the older I get, the more angry I feel. I’m angry that I can’t just… TELL THEM how they made me feel… without worrying about how they’ll respond.
Oh, wait, time out. I KNOW how they will react. “You are over-reacting,” “Oh, stop it,” and “Get over it.”
If I COULD get over it, don’t you think I would have already? Do you think I want to carry all of this around with me FOREVER?
A few years ago, my mother called me and asked me if THEY ever did anything to hurt me.
What could I say? Yes, you made my life a fucking miserable existence and I am still suffering from it?
No. I couldn’t do that. I’m too busy trying to prove that I’m a good person, even though I spent the better part of the weekend texting mean things about them to my friend, who was texting me funny comments to make me laugh. She met them this weekend and while my parents were (loudly) telling everyone about (only the positives) Arizona, she rolled her eyes and texted me later, “Your parents climbed up [relative's] ass and camped out today. Poor you.”
*sighs*
—end of release—
This time.
