November 27th, 2003

Me pink

Awake at the butt crack of dawn, again

Yes, my eyes were open by 5:15, but I did not leave the bed until 6:00. It's now nearly 7:00 and I can't believe that, once again, I'm up before the sun with nothing to do with my time but dither around with my LiveJournal.

I was thinking about something I was writing in wackywallflower's LiveJournal ... pondering a broken heart, and what it is to have your heart broken at 18 versus what it is to have your heart broken in your 30s. Isn't it amazing, that no matter how many ways we grow and mature and learn, that some things seem like they never change. How is it possible that I feel just as inept now as I did when I was 18? And I mean "inept" in a broad, general sense. Not just in terms of heartbreak, but in terms of my ability to talk to people, to strangers ... my ability to support myself ... heck, silly basics like my ability to dress myself. How is it that I feel like the last 15 years have taught me next to nothing? I still make terrible decisions (with regularity). I still give my heart away too easily. I still feel like the same goofy little kid I've always felt like.



Epilogue:

I dreamt Daryk and I were on a train, and I was eating a broken candy cane. He was next to the window - to my right - and I was resting my head on his shoulder as he talked. Oh, I felt so safe and so relieved to be sitting there, just listening to him talk ...
Me pink

I believe, I believe ...

I've been procrastinating. I'm supposed to be at my parents' house in an hour and a half and I haven't lifted a finger to get ready yet. I wish I didn't have to go. Holidays always get to me. I suppose that's true of a lot of people. Still ...

Makes me think of the movie Home For The Holidays. There's this great scene where Holly Hunter is in the car, being criticized by her parents while being driven to their house from the airport. She looks out the window and catches the eye of the man (who always reminded me of an old friend, Mike Stowe ... something about his face) in the car next to theirs, who's in the same situation. He sees her, looks at his parents, and rolls his eyes ...

It all ties in to what I was saying earlier, both here, and in wackywallflower's journal ... about how messed up it is that my parents still have the ability to make me feel like I'm incompetent.

This has been a really fucking rough month for me, for a myriad of reasons. I won't go into all of them again, but suffice it to say, I'm still feeling very fragile, and very much alone. It just seems like the last fucking thing I need is to go over to that house and be made to feel even lower than I already do.

Like smoking ... I know my Dad. My Dad is not comfortable until everything revolves around him. One way or another, if he finds out I quit smoking, it's going to be all about him ... he's going to be the center of all things, making as much noise as possible, and ... and I'm not going to finish that thought. But it will be just like the night we buried Molly, when somehow, once again, the whole evening became all about my Dad and about how much noise he could make.

The winner is the one who shouts the loudest.
Me pink

Thankful I don't have to do THAT again for another year ...

There's nothing quite like sitting around a table with people who don't want to be with each other. My Dad and I are still fighting. My Dad has never tolerated my Grandmother. My Mother wants everyone to get along, and it will never, ever happen.

It's depressing, really. My Dad seems to have no awareness of why I might still be upset that he chose to pick a fight with me while I was burying my pet. My Mother is stretched way too thin.

But it's over now and I'm home and drinking a nice, tall glass of vodka. Nothing like alcohol to wash away the stench of family.