More of a rant/vent than anything, just as a forewarning.
For clarification, I'm completely out to my mom. She's completely supportive, as she's always been, but still trying to get used to name changes and such. It's not too terrible, because she's almost always called me at least Nikki or Noodles (which I still love).
My dad however, I am not out to. And he's one of those people that seems to have this inborn necessity to call everyone by their full name, especially me. And it hurts.
One more little tidbit: ever since we moved here, my dad and I have no been exceptionally close (I've mentioned this at other times on here, I'm almost positive). He's very hard to talk to, and while he's a good person at heart, can be a fantastic douchebag at times (generally without warning or provocation).
So, last night, my aunt was coming into town for the first time in months and I was over at my parents, hanging out in the living room with the dogs, waiting for her to get there. My dad's joking around and playfully ragging on me, and I'm ragging on him back when he says that name and I kind of instinctively draw down into my hoodie, pull my dog a bit closer and wait for the anxiety to go away. About ten seconds later, my mom corrects him and says "Nick. Nick or Nikki, she likes that better". I almost start tearing up here, because my mom is trying for me.
My dad then replies, with no spite or anything, matter of factly "Well, that's her name. That's her real name, and she'll just have to deal with it".
And that's where I started to crash. My mom just sat there staring at me, not saying anything. My aunt showed up, and bless my increasingly useful talent for lying because I played the ->-bleeped-<- out of being fine, and yes these allergies are just wreaking havoc on my poor little eyes. Something came on the tv about some guy's daughter being a snotty brat, my dad was laughing, and then my mom starts in on this near-tirade about "How lucky they were to have me".
Yet another snatch of clarification, my mom had two miscarriages after me, so she's always been exceptionally clingy to me.
And one more, my dad always wanted a daughter. Always. I've thought, and said, for years that the reason we never got along well was because my dad wanted a daughter, and instead he got me. An ugly little punchline to a sick cosmic joke.
well, my mom's going on and on about how lucky they are, and how wonderful I am, staring at me all along and its getting harder not to sob. I love my mom, endlessly, for being the way she is but sometimes I just...regret that she cares. Regret that she's one of the biggest things keeping me from falling back into that lovely blackness of alcoholism, keeping me from throwing myself off our convenient 3-story porch, keeping me from any number of unsavory ends. I just kept thinking how the hell can she think that she's lucky? I'm 22 without a job, have nearly two years of lost memories from my drinking, can't even just suck it up and be a good little girl. I don't get how the hell she can love me, or how anyone can for that matter. I wanted to break down and sob, curl up on the couch next to her like a five year old and just lose it, knowing that s
he'd hear me out and understand and not judge me, but I couldn't. One of the things I learned from my dad and just can't break myself of is that crying is weak. So, so weak and so abhorrent.
So I ran to the bathroom like a bitch and sobbed, smeared snot all over my dear boyfriend's expensive hoodie and chewed down on my arm so I wouldn't scream. I sobbed and thought about taking those expensive surgical scissors in the cabinet and stabbing them right through my ugly little heart, about cutting every inch of this worthless sack of ->-bleeped-<-, and bleeding myself out all over that nice costly rug in the bathroom. I keep thinking of this even now, back with my two best friends, on my couch. I keep thinking of this near constantly because there are other factors that I don't have the patience or strength to even begin on right now.
The worst of it were the flashbacks to St.John's. Curled into a corner in the bathroom, sobbing my eyes out, feeling so absolutely alienated and ugly and alone, I could almost smell that goddamn place again. I could almost feel them, hear them, everything. I left after that. I called Ben hysterical, told him something happened and I couldn't wait it out, went out and bull->-bleeped-<-ted my way through leaving and ran across the parking lot in such hysterics that I was almost puking. I climbed the stairs back to the apartment, back to home, and stood at the top scream-crying. I wanted to fly, I wanted to fly so badly and just lose this ->-bleeped-<-ing weight and I couldn't. Not with my two lovelies ten feet away inside this warm, beautiful house. Not with my incredible mom a few yards away, probably worrying about me. So I fought with the door, got inside, and collapsed into his arms to sob for about two more hours.
Eventually, I felt better. Ben and Julie both are incredibly sweet in those moments, supporting and being and somehow understanding. I finished out the night having a fantastic time, eating chocolate cake and listening to music with Julie, but I woke up remembering what'd happened initially and just felt it all over again. I've been sick all morning since. I can't eat without gagging, I can't even smoke. so I'm hiding on the couch until ben gets home, scared ->-bleeped-<-less that if I make a move for anything, even innocuous things, something terrible (or wonderful, depending on who's side you're on) may happen.
Things have been bad, I've got to say. Things have been so very, very, ->-bleeped-<-ing bad.
