This is a public apology for the things I said about my boyfriend’s family in my last post. I was completely disrespectful and being very unfair. For some reason I am unsure of, I was dead set on antagonizing them in my life. But reading his comment on my post, which you should do if you read my last post, made me realize what I was doing and how wrong I was. I am sorry.
Tag Archives: parents
This was going to be, “I Hate My Boyfriend’s Mother,” and I’m going to get to that, but then I started getting down on myself.
L’s family is really big on healthy eating. And, well, I’m most definitely not. Not that I don’t want to be. I’m just super picky. And I struggle greatly to control myself. Especially since I got depression. (Yes, I -got- depression. I wasn’t depressed before or during most of college). I have noticed that since we started dating seven and half months ago, he’s developed a little gut. But I didn’t care in the least. Besides, I quite like guts.
But L’s parents have noticed, too. And they’re getting on his case about it. Now I’m getting concerned. Is it really that big a deal? Do other people notice, too? Do his coworkers? Does the public? Is he going to get even bigger because I’m encouraging him too much to eat just like me? Not that I care if he’s big or small, trust me on that. I just don’t want him to feel what I feel. I don’t want his parents to treat him the way they treat me behind my back. Except it won’t be behind his back. And it’ll be worse. And it’ll be all my fault.
Besides, being healthy is a good thing. And I’m making his unhealthy. That’s bad. :(.
I hate his parents. I hate his parents. I. Hate. His. Parents.
They came up with some bullshit today that he has an obligation to his family and should eat dinner with them.
He’s 28 years old.
He has no obligation to them beyond chores because he lives in their house.
He’s in that house all the time, cleaning it from top to bottom, doing laundry, doing dishes, while no one else lifts a fuckin finger. Excuse him if he wants to go have dinner with his girlfriend who doesn’t like the fish you guys are having. And who would refuse to eat with you anyway because you treat both of us like shit. I know they think I’m shit because I’m fat, I’m taking him away from them, and am making him fat.
My counselor told me that my eating habits should be none of my parents’ business, because I’m 24 years old. If that’s true, then that goes for L’s parents, too. If he wants to match my eating habits, that’s none of their freakin’ business. They have no right to say anything about anything about his eating or weight.
But I still feel bad I’m making my boyfriend fat and unhealthy just like me :(.
So… I kind of owe you guys an explanation. Heheh. The post before last, part 1, was more an explosion of feelings than an articulated blog post. Sorry about that. And then I forgot to go back and actually explain what it was all about. Sorry about that. So, here goes.
My room is a mess. It’s just one huge pile of shit. I use it all, but still. If I had anywhere to put my things, they wouldn’t be there. Truth, I have clothes on the floor when there is now room for them in my closet. At least, room for some of them. I just can’t get myself to clean my room. And my car’s usually the same way. (I had to clean my car, though, because it had to go in for a recall and get fixed).
My parents can’t stand my room (or my car). It drives them insane. And apparently just shutting the door isn’t good enough. So my dad took all my stuff and threw it in the garage.
So, yeah, I was pretty upset. So I went on to this facebook group for women with mental disabilities looking for some support after the fight. What do I get? “You’re twenty-four years old, you should grow up, get three jobs, and move out. They’re trying to tell you to move out. Most people your age have already moved out. I moved out at 18. I have two jobs and go to school full time with a mental illness.”
A couple people went and defended me, but that just killed me. And then I got a couple other people like her. “You should have just cleaned your room” and shit. Welll, as I said, I simply can’t get myself to clean my room. I’ve tried. Hell, I can’t even get myself to do laundry anymore. Like, wtf?
So I got really pissed. And I kinda went off on a tangent that isn’t exactly what was said, but I was sure what she would think. That I was priveledged, so I couldn’t complain. Because there was a part where she said something like, “you’re lucky you even have a dad. Mine’s dead and I never see my mom.” Well, that sucks for you. Doesn’t mean life with my parents is that fan fucking tastic.
What sucks more is I usually pay rent. Now, there is the excuse that I hadn’t paid rent at the time. I struggle with money a lot. I have a spending problem and my parents are very lenient with me because of that. But still, they’re my things. Yes, it’s their house, but am I not allowed to have anything that’s MINE in my living environment? That’s not OK. Especially since I usually pay rent and do pay my own bills.
Lesigh. This sucks. Anyway, that’s the explanation. Sorry it took so long. Please don’t leave hate. Thanks for reading.
My boyfriend’s mother hates me. And we’ve only been dating less than three months. They had a fight this morning. She started going off about me. Probably about my weight. And how I’m probably encouraging him to gain weight. ‘Cause that’s what all fat people do, right?
I’m sorry if my weight offends you, Mrs. A, but it’s really none of your business. Neither is your 28-year-old son’s weight. At least, not when it’s just a little extra tummy weight.
I’ve struggled with food all my life. It’s not as easy-peasy for me as it was for you. Everyone’s different. Yes, my antidepressants have something to do with my problems. But y’know what? Without those, I’d have killed myself by now. By accident. I’d rather be fat than dead by my own hand. I dunno, those are my priorities. Maybe yours aren’t the same.
I’ve shown her nothing but respect, despite what I think of her. And I’ll continue to show her that. I’m writing this so that I don’t strangle her the next time I see her and she tries to start something. Which she probably will.
I kinda wanna write about it.
But I kinda don’t wanna write about it.
I kinda should write about it.
But I kinda shouldn’t write about it.
So, I guess, if you don’t wanna read about it, don’t read this.
If you don’t wanna report me to social services, but would feel obligated to, don’t read this.
So, I guess it’s time to tell you about it.
There were a couple factors that caused it. The first is minor.
I am sick of crying at work.
All I seem to do these days is cry. At work. Everyone at work is totally understanding about it, but it’s exhausting and embarrassing. I’m sick of caring.
The second reason is also minor.
The first reason I cried lately, was because of some chick at work. I had to pee, so I called R over to cover me, because she was the floater. She was walking up and said, “You’re lucky I’m coming over.”
I’m all, “What do you mean?”
“I don’t like you.”
I tilt my head and have her repeat herself. Now, we all joke around all the time, so I’m really confused. I had never done a thing to her, not intentionally, anyway. She borrowed my charger the day before. But as I’m in the bathroom I decide she’s being serious. So I go up to her and ask, “What’d I do?”
It was a bitch to get out of her what I did. As she walked away she said, “A couple things. Basically, you’re a bitch.”
I know this is her problem. She’s the bitch and coward for not even facing me with her problems. She’s so unimportant. But something deep inside me still cared, and was severely hurt. Because despite everything I knew for a fact, I burst into tears. I called the ASM to come talk to me before I exploded; either in sobs or screams directed at R.
But that was all minor. The real, main reason? I’ll tell you.
I have a system. I have a system for almost everything. And if you disrupt my system, I get frustrated. It’s the ADD/Aspberger’s in me. So, I have a system for closing down the registers at night. But Sunday night, I really had to pee (I have to pee a lot during work. I drink like a camel). So, in order to avoid disrupting my system, I ran to the bathroom when my system allowed some time. Literally, there was only enough time for me to go, pee, and come back. As I was walking back, Q called me over. He had to use the bathroom. So I was frustrated, and I was jokingly making a big deal out of it. But I covered him.
He left his phone at the register, and it went off. I thought, ‘it’d be really funny to answer that on him. ….No, no it wouldn’t.’ But then the manager that was there said, “Answer it!” So I thought, ‘Oh, she thinks it’ll be funny. So it must be funny.’ Besides, it wouldn’t bother me much if someone answered my phone. Esp if it was a joke/”revenge”. So I answered it. It was his gf’s sister. I told the chick the truth, I was Q’s coworker and was playing a joke on him. She told me to tell him to call her back, and we hung up.
Two days later, the day after the R incident, I found out his gf broke up with him that night. Again, tears.
The next day I had off.
The day after that, I decided I was going to stop caring about work, so that I could stop crying there. So I took a Xanax. I was OK. Q walked by and glared at me when I wasn’t looking, and I took another Xanax. Finally, we ended up at the same register. The awkwardness and guilt was too much. I couldn’t take it. So I volunteered to go to the slowest register. The one where no customers come by, and you have nothing to do but think. And think. And think.
I kinda wanted to do it.
But I kinda didn’t want to do it.
I tried to find somebody to stop me. But I couldn’t find anyone. Couldn’t think of anyone to call (not that I’d be allowed to call anyone, anyway.) So I did it.
On Thursday, April 24, 2014, I took a total of 10 Xanax and 10 Acetaminophen.
I didn’t want to die. Just wanted the attention. The pity. I wanted R and Q to feel bad for what they’d done to me. I just wanted to go to the hospital where someone would take care of me and I could get away from everything for a few days.
I didn’t feel anything happening, so I went up to Q and told him that I was suicidal because of the whole situation. He tried to save his ass by being all, “Oh, no, don’t do that. We fight like this all the time. It’s really no big deal.” No one noticed anything wrong for the rest of the work day. I only know this because I don’t remember the rest of it. I may have asked a coworker if my eyes were dilated. But I’m not sure.
Apparently, I got home safely. I guess I hung around for a while. My parents didn’t notice anything. My friend was 20 minutes late coming over, so I figured she was going to be really late. So I decided I felt like masturbating. I went up stairs, laid down, got my pants down, and the next thing I knew it was 10:30 and my mom was calling me, telling me my friend was here.
My friend, A, noticed right away. But she’s a CNA, she’s trained to. She almost took me to the hospital. But for some reason (maybe I told her no, I was fine), she decided not to. A and I went to Wegman’s and apparently I was acting kinda weird, cuz she was telling everyone that I was just a ditzy person. Then we came back and had fun.
The next morning, after A left, I decided my parents had a right to know. I had debated telling them, because I knew what they would do. But they are my parents. So I told my mom. She remained calm all day. Then my dad got home.
YOU’RE GOING TO LOSE YOUR JOB! MY CAREER IS RUINED! HE’S GOING TO LOSE HIS GUNS!
Several days of lectures and yells. Oh, and new restrictions.
My boss found out about it. Apparently idiot-ass me told a customer. But she never addressed it at work. Only on fb.
I still want the attention. I still want the pity. So I’m quietly spreading the story around at work. Even though my store is the center of rumors, my story isn’t getting around very well. Just as well, I guess.
Apparently Q and his gf got back together. He spoke to me today like nothing had happened. So, things are getting better, I guess. But the meds still need fixing. Because I kinda wanna do it again. I still wanna go to the hospital.
I went on a shopping spree yesterday. I found relaxers. Particularly, hooka sticks. They’re e-cigs with hooka instead of nicotine (right?). They’re fantastic.
No, my parents don’t know about the hooka sticks. And they aren’t going to. My counselor might. Maybe. Or not.
I’m exhausted, now. I guess it was good I wrote about it. Do you hurt yourself? What are your reasons?
My parents are Not listening.
My family does Not get it.
I will Not be able to get out of this house.
I will Not be able to own anything at all.
I am Not happy here.
My roommate does Not make enough money for us to live together.
This life is Not OK.
It canNot stay the same.
It will Not change.
The seed of hatred I mentioned a month or two ago? Yeah, it’s growing. I deal with parents that don’t even try to get it. I walked in the door last night, all nice a cheery. My mom asks me how my day was. I’m like, “Well, it was a bad day.” She asks why. I say, “I had a bad depression episode today.” She rolled her eyes, sighed, and walked away.
Who DOES that? My mother, that’s who. After we have at it for a couple minutes, I give up and go up to my room. Later, my dad tries to play peacekeeper. “You don’t know how it feels for us, with all that we do for you, and you come in and say ‘depression’.” I’m all, “So you don’t want to deal with it.” I didn’t get a clear answer. Well, I have to deal with it. I thought you were there to help, but I guess not. “I’ve had depressing situations, too. I haven’t let them get me down.” I try telling him, “But you don’t have something in your brain screwing everything up!” I told him this at least three times during the conversation. Probably more. Never got a real response out of him. They’re not even trying to get it. He’s like, “We’re paying for your meds, for your counselor, we’ve gone three times to see her.” But they haven’t learned anything. Everything the counselor says goes in one ear and out the other. They just don’t want to get it.
I need to get out of this house. Now.