Mood Weather
Do you ever have the weather match your mood? Like, you're in a terrifically good mood and the sun comes out, not too warm, and shines happily while fluffy white clouds drift blissfully through a periwinkle-blue sky. This happens to me on occasion. No connection, naturally, outside of coincidence, but still, I find it interesting.
Like today. I've been put on this hormone therapy 'cause of unpleasant chick stuff I really don't want to go into because it's private and upseting. Today's the last day of the heavy-duty doses, and in a couple of days, I go on a more regular thingamabob. Hormone therapy seriously whacks out your emotions. It whacks out your ability to deal with shit which flies in your direction, and makes you more likely to freak. (I think the reason I was so damned hyper until a short while ago is the stuff that's going on which requires me to take these pills.)
Living with my parents is not exactly a treat. My parents should have gotten a divorce years ago. I mean decades. They should have gotten a divorce when I was elementary school. Or earlier. They have serious fucking issues, as individuals and as a couple. They both need serious therapy. They should neither of them be in a relationship of any kind. They are both very twisted, psychologically. They have their good side, each of them, and I love them, because they are my mom and dad and I remember those good things.
But since I have moved back in with them, they both have decided I am part of this war they have been waging against eachother since before I was born. Many little things. Many, many, many little things. Occasional big things, but mostly small, even tiny. I don't want to go into details, but lies and accusations and insults are included.
I am punished by either parent for the behavior, recent or long-term or imagined, of the other. This is not particularly fair. I am not a perfect housemate, but I do try. I'm no longer that 18-year old, whiny bitch. I'm nearly thirty and have a sense of responsibility. I do my best to pull my weight here, chore-wise, making meals, cleaning up. I do my own laundry. I do their laundry. I fold their laundry when I find they've left it sitting in the dryer for a week. I clean up after they cook. I clean up the mess after they do laundry (there's this whole thing with lint I will not go into). I clean growing things out of their fridge and wipe up the strange and sticky brown spills. I vacuum. I try to leave a minimum of my things lying about the house, only leaving something somewhere if I really need it to be in that partcular place in the house. Et cetera. Et cetera.
But this isn't enough. It could never be enough, especially since they don't even notice or one of them claims to have done what I've done. I haven't flipped out. I just sigh or shrug my shoulders and keep quiet, even when they're screaming at me. Any further reaction would only make matters worse.
Until this week, with these damned hormones. I'm irritable and hyper-sensitive. Not a good state of mind when dealing with these two. All week, when something happened, I'd whisper angrily at the door through which the parent who had upset me had gone. Trying to keep my temper down. A flare of temper only makes it worse, it only makes it worse. But I could get calm. Angry whispers at no one, then calm. But today, I snapped. I slammed a wall with my fist and swore at the top of my lungs. I was in the basement and no one was there, but I just couldn't take that one last thing this week. That one last straw. That one last piece of undeserved blame, that one last lie, that one last passive-agressive act. After the outburst, my mom came to the top of the stairs and asked me just what the hell I thought I was doing. I told her exactly what was wrong, as loudly as I could, unable to keep myself from screaming at her exactly what was wrong, wrong, wrong, always. She quietly said, "Oh," and walked away.
My throat aching and my entire body shaking, I came upstairs and, lo!, the very skies had opened and a thunderous torrent had been unleashed from the heavens! It was like the world reflected exactly what happened to me. Boom! Everything came pouring out in a grey, vertical river, the rain hitting the ground so hard it bounced back up higher than the roof. I almost cried, but I didn't. There's no point to crying. It changes nothing, just makes my face puffy and bloched-red. There really wasn't a need for me to cry. Or yell or scream or slam and kick walls. It's stupid, juvenile behavior. I'm better than that. I hope.
I've stopped shaking, but I feel nauseated and my throat is still rough and sore. I'm hoping I can get back to the passive calm I had earlier, now that I no longer have to take this pill anymore. But I do wish I had one of those big, hanging punching bags like Buffy Summers practices on when she's training. It'd be good to have something to punch, just in case. I really don't want to lose my temper like that again. It changes nothing and just makes me feel sick.
The rain helped, though. I wonder whom I should thank for that quick storm.
Like today. I've been put on this hormone therapy 'cause of unpleasant chick stuff I really don't want to go into because it's private and upseting. Today's the last day of the heavy-duty doses, and in a couple of days, I go on a more regular thingamabob. Hormone therapy seriously whacks out your emotions. It whacks out your ability to deal with shit which flies in your direction, and makes you more likely to freak. (I think the reason I was so damned hyper until a short while ago is the stuff that's going on which requires me to take these pills.)
Living with my parents is not exactly a treat. My parents should have gotten a divorce years ago. I mean decades. They should have gotten a divorce when I was elementary school. Or earlier. They have serious fucking issues, as individuals and as a couple. They both need serious therapy. They should neither of them be in a relationship of any kind. They are both very twisted, psychologically. They have their good side, each of them, and I love them, because they are my mom and dad and I remember those good things.
But since I have moved back in with them, they both have decided I am part of this war they have been waging against eachother since before I was born. Many little things. Many, many, many little things. Occasional big things, but mostly small, even tiny. I don't want to go into details, but lies and accusations and insults are included.
I am punished by either parent for the behavior, recent or long-term or imagined, of the other. This is not particularly fair. I am not a perfect housemate, but I do try. I'm no longer that 18-year old, whiny bitch. I'm nearly thirty and have a sense of responsibility. I do my best to pull my weight here, chore-wise, making meals, cleaning up. I do my own laundry. I do their laundry. I fold their laundry when I find they've left it sitting in the dryer for a week. I clean up after they cook. I clean up the mess after they do laundry (there's this whole thing with lint I will not go into). I clean growing things out of their fridge and wipe up the strange and sticky brown spills. I vacuum. I try to leave a minimum of my things lying about the house, only leaving something somewhere if I really need it to be in that partcular place in the house. Et cetera. Et cetera.
But this isn't enough. It could never be enough, especially since they don't even notice or one of them claims to have done what I've done. I haven't flipped out. I just sigh or shrug my shoulders and keep quiet, even when they're screaming at me. Any further reaction would only make matters worse.
Until this week, with these damned hormones. I'm irritable and hyper-sensitive. Not a good state of mind when dealing with these two. All week, when something happened, I'd whisper angrily at the door through which the parent who had upset me had gone. Trying to keep my temper down. A flare of temper only makes it worse, it only makes it worse. But I could get calm. Angry whispers at no one, then calm. But today, I snapped. I slammed a wall with my fist and swore at the top of my lungs. I was in the basement and no one was there, but I just couldn't take that one last thing this week. That one last straw. That one last piece of undeserved blame, that one last lie, that one last passive-agressive act. After the outburst, my mom came to the top of the stairs and asked me just what the hell I thought I was doing. I told her exactly what was wrong, as loudly as I could, unable to keep myself from screaming at her exactly what was wrong, wrong, wrong, always. She quietly said, "Oh," and walked away.
My throat aching and my entire body shaking, I came upstairs and, lo!, the very skies had opened and a thunderous torrent had been unleashed from the heavens! It was like the world reflected exactly what happened to me. Boom! Everything came pouring out in a grey, vertical river, the rain hitting the ground so hard it bounced back up higher than the roof. I almost cried, but I didn't. There's no point to crying. It changes nothing, just makes my face puffy and bloched-red. There really wasn't a need for me to cry. Or yell or scream or slam and kick walls. It's stupid, juvenile behavior. I'm better than that. I hope.
I've stopped shaking, but I feel nauseated and my throat is still rough and sore. I'm hoping I can get back to the passive calm I had earlier, now that I no longer have to take this pill anymore. But I do wish I had one of those big, hanging punching bags like Buffy Summers practices on when she's training. It'd be good to have something to punch, just in case. I really don't want to lose my temper like that again. It changes nothing and just makes me feel sick.
The rain helped, though. I wonder whom I should thank for that quick storm.
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