Did childhood abuse shape my sexuality? An Update.

As I add more stories and bits to my Patreon and wade through the history of my thoughts- my bitter, envious, ageist, ablelist, fat-shaming, misogynistic, heteronormative thoughts- and realize that this was all present at or before I became an official adult, I came to terms with when all my ideas arose, where they came from, what they morphed into.

Especially as I come across words and ideas I wouldn’t be caught dead formalizing into stories. Like, how could I have ever thought like that? How did I change for the better?

Now I remember certain conversations with family and friends that were backed by things that I read here and there, and how that helped me get to where I am. Like fat-shaming. I remember arguing with my brother, I’m paraphrasing, that ‘morbidly obese’ people didn’t need to be protected from fat shaming.

“What do you mean, morbidly?”

“As in they are killing themselves with being fat?”

“Other people kill themselves- slowly- in different ways. Like smoking. Do you smoke-shame people?”

He attacked the root of the problem- and it’s not like I got it then and there. Then and there I still believed he was dumb and that we needed for people to know that being fat is bad.

Fucking stupid, I know.

So fast forward to a (hopefully) more knowledgeable and compassionate me who’s posting fantasy BDSM porn between intersex individuals.

Absolutely no part of that formulated in the last eleven years that is my adulthood. I can trace my most initial ideas way back to kindergarten, where I often imagined my dolls, the plastic-y ones like Barbie, being beaten by monsters. Like, that’s what I tried to think of before going to sleep, hoping I would dream it. Or thinking of swimming my entire body among hot oatmeal. Or going through the heightened mode of experience which happened when I was about to get a spanking.

Now, before you think about a five-year-old’s sado-masochistic daydreams, I want to tell you that I had absolutely no sexual innuendos with these thoughts. Even if many of the characters in my head were naked, it was just easier to have them naked rather than everyone taking off their clothes. That definitely came later.

As might be apparent by the last example of me getting into the proper headspace to be beaten, perhaps these imaginings were the product of physical abuse. My mind tried to cope and it did it a wee bit too well, until I got to this point. But I never imagined it was my parents doing the beatings- At this, I would get too angry or sad, and that wasn’t fun bedtime material.

Then I watched porn for the first time. I think it was 3rd grade? 4th? There was a ‘red tape’ that I watched in Louisiana with my cousins, and a ‘blank tape’ that I watched with my siblings. Someone had stolen the red tape, but I remember the ‘blank tape’ enough to remember that I didn’t just watch it. There were, in particular, two scenes. The red tape had a scene way at the end that I liked, and the blank tape had a scene somewhat in the middle.

The main differences between these scenes and the others that I didn’t like is that they talked. The kind of humiliating talk you often hear in porn. The type of humiliating talk when an abusive person is feeling particularly vicious verbally, without all the sex stuff.

Once they stopped talking and continued the sex in earnest, I would turn off the video and go to bed, hoping to dream.

As time went on, I got less spankings and more yelled at, more humiliated, and with that, the inner stories voiced themselves. At this time, I was reading like a fiend, mostly fantasy, but also a bit of history, and whatever book the librarian or reading teacher said I should read. For example, “My Brother Sam Is Dead”. It had one of those stickers that often portended a really good book, but I didn’t like the title, and eventually the library assistant said I should read it.

I cried.

And people died in my inner stories.

And then I watched the 90s ‘movie’ called Ai no Kusabi.

This young man called a mongrel who lived in the slums of a city in the far future is kidnapped by the most elite of the elite and forced to provide for him sexually. Although, at the beginning, blond dude saved the mongrel’s life, and he really didn’t want to owe anything to an Elite, and was like, “Fuck me, and we’re even”. Blond guy kinda liked it too much.

It encapsulated all my desires at the moment. Sexual tension and humiliation, a sci-fi fantasy background, a relatable plot, and characters who I knew weren’t ever going to find happiness.

It was around this time that I realized I only liked porn between women, but everything else was fair game. I don’t have a clue why. It’s pretty much the same now. If the woman isn’t enjoying herself, I find little point to watching it- although I don’t feel the same if there is a man in the scene. However, if it’s a scene between gay men, they both must obviously enjoy it. But it’s hard to find anything I like.

Like above… After this, it was mostly content that changed. I added a few fetishes like vore and vampirism to my list, stopped using ‘fat’ as a character trait, and realized how much I wanted neurodivergent characters to get the front seat. These were more expansions of creativity rather than base instincts.

It’s not like my parents were, in my childhood, supportive in much of any of my creative interests. But I didn’t do it to spite them either. They came naturally.

But how much of it was truly nature? One of my earliest memories is throwing up in my car-seat and my dad reaching back to smack me. He kept saying not to puke. I don’t think I have the whole story there, but it’s just to put into perspective how not clear-cut everything is.

It doesn’t help that my siblings each have a bit of everything that I have, although not the whole package. Then again, they have eccentric things that they do that I don’t.

Who cares?!?!?!?!?!

Yea. What is the point of all this? It doesn’t change anything.

Still, when I think that I’m writing out my childhood trauma and everything that I am stems from being beat and humiliated and traumatized- unhappy as a kid, it makes everything feel so… fake. As if… If the whole world was perfect, if no one suffered, no one would have these thoughts. I would not be me.

But then I think. That would have been nature too. A non-traumatized life can only be made by a life without trauma- haha, like, duh, but what I mean is, effects are made by what happened. There is nothing inherently ‘special’ of having a good childhood-only that it’s good. There is also nothing inherently ‘special’ of having a bad childhood- only that it’s bad. They are both formulated on equal grounds by equal means. We just like them differently. As long as it ends well, who cares where the influence comes from?

It’s ended well, I think.

What if all killers (mass or otherwise) were like Malcom X 0.5? or Brock Turner?

I wrote this the day after the mass killing in Orlando’s Latin LGBTQ nightclub, but I didn’t want to share it until later, when everything comes to light- or as much as the media allows before people with human decency fills out the rest of the ‘terrorist attack’ schtick that so many news outlets are peddling.

My dear sister, who has a warm outlook of the world- so warm that she says things that I would never think to say, one of which was this: I so wish people would stop calling it a terrorist attack based on his religion rather than the fact that it’s a terrorist attack because it’s an act of terror. 😒

Which is the main reason people want to add more facts around this horrific crime against humanity. Terrorist attack and Islam is not mutually inclusive all the time- except in America. Probably, unless you’re black and/or Muslim. I give no leeway to any religion that somehow prompts a person to do something horrible. Sure, without religion, people can find the reason to do bad things (Brock Turner comes to mind- goddamn can you find a sleazier couple of words? If someone was introducing you to a Brock Turner, most of y’all will be ready to meet a complete asshole, admit it).

But I know for damn sure it’s easier to do a lot of bad things if you feel that some god is telling you to do it. Just like for some people, their ‘reliance’ on their faith keeps them from doing bad things- which is equally as terrifying as the other way around.

Yet, we all know that without religion, or any other catalyst one can make their crutch, the mind, influenced by genes and the environment and the words that float in and around, the television, the experiences within and without, can one day make a person think something that isn’t ok, is ok. Or ok enough.

I’ve already made this clear to my brother (again, this was the afternoon after the shooting in Orlando, before I even knew about it), but I met an absolute lunatic yesterday (June 11). When I had seen him around campus, I thought he was extremely fit and handsome, and since I was caught staring 89% of the time, I usually said hi, and he would say hi back.

Yesterday I was at a table outside, after the library closed, and I was biding my time until the bus came. Here comes strong, tall, and handsome. He drops his bag in the chair across from me, and a jug of water on the table, smiles, and says, “Let’s have a conversation!”

Let me tell you people, I’ve been homeless for a bit over a month. I’m finally going to be able to leave Crapsville for something I think is bigger and better. Every man who I had more than a ten word conversation with has catcalled me and pinched and rubbed and hugged me without my permission, and two of them have solicited me for sex in the most awkward ways imaginable. One persistent fellow is dumb as FUCK and always telling me ‘advice’ that I did NOT ask for. (Is this the mansplaining that people talk about? Because nearly every man I talk to does this- like, I don’t need your help unless I ask for it, you know?)

So when a handsome man gives you space and gets right to the point, but not to that point, I get interested.

And I listened to his conversation. Note. Listened.

After five minutes.

After fifteen.

My bus nearly here.

DUDE WAS A FUCKING LUNATIC.

And I was sooooooooooo disappointed. Like, I knew he was getting his education, staying fit, knew how to talk to people  (or thought really) but noooooooooooooooo- he was CRAZY.

And what made me sad sad sad in the pit of my stomach, in my freaking soul, was that he just didn’t know.

He couldn’t see it.

Okay, a snippet of his ‘conversation’:

“You don’t need to be scared of me, there’s nothing to be afraid of, if I was going to kill you I would have pulled out the gun I have, to protect myself, because everyone has a right to protect themselves, especially black men, you see how everyone’s killing black men, espeically cops, don’t trust the cops, they’ll kill you, they kill so many people and people trust them, i know you trust them because you’re looking at your phone, going to call them? I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to teach you, because learning is what you’re here to do, knowledge is power, don’t let anyone tell you different, even  if you’re a woman, there’s that  psychological-methological-pathological influence working on you, too easy, you’re getting distracted, looking at your phone, you know phones cause cancer, and so does that drink and all that sugar, you’ll lose your teeth, see, look, this is how my teeth look and they look like this because I take care of myself, and black men need to take care of themselves, remember what I said about my gun, yea, just turning it all back on itself, circle of life, that psychological-methological-pathological thinking that everyone is thinking, too easy…”

I was only too happy to finally walk to the bus, because it will be near a street and I’ll be safer. I had my brother a button away on my phone (the reason I was on my phone, just in case I antagonize him further). But then Malcom X 0.5 says he’ll walk me home, and I kept telling him I’m taking the bus (because the bus doesn’t run on Sundays, and I had to walk all day today), and he told me (in his rambling way) that I needed to lose weight and a bunch of other crazy stuff. And I was a black woman and he would protect me. To be honest, I actually believed that part 100%.

He said in different ways that if he wanted to hurt/kill me, how he would do it, where he would do it etc.

But one part I want to take from this, other than the fact that, damn, judging a book by its cover goes in so many directions, but also, this dude talked about the psychological-methological-pathological control that his medicine tried to hold over him.

I knew he needed some psychiatric medicine. Probably a lot. All of it. But to know that he’s been off? See this- people have seen this guy being crazy, gave him medicine, and somehow he felt that he didn’t need to take it, and then he felt it wasn’t going to make him better, and finally to Crazyville thinking that the medicine did more harm than good. And now he was how he was.

Brock Turner.

Okay. You’ve heard about him. Prolly read the letters from his parents. If you haven’t read his parents’ letters, here are some excerpts.

This probably makes you irate. Hell, it should. But one thing that prolly works through your mind is if these people are serious. How entitled and self-centered can you get? It’s just almost unbelievable. How crazy can you get?

As yesterday told me, fucking insane. Nutzoid. But what’s the middle for that? Me who takes 600 mg of a pretty strong drug? But people think I’m pretty awesome then how about the Turner’s? The way these people are talking , and you know, they just don’t get the point. And how would you make them know? When every angle is covered by crazy and self-centeredness and complete ignorance? When they see Turner (or when he sees himself) as mostly innocent with a few mistakes (and still continue to be so) can you change their mind?

And that brings me to Orlando. And other killers (mass or otherwise). 90 percent of time, they know that what they’re doing is wrong (or seen as wrong by others), but the little chemicals conjoined in the brain makes someone pull that trigger. Sometimes those chemicals are helped by some religious upbringing and influences imagine endorphins flooding in knowing that what you did, and the scale of what you did, has pleased the god as you know it, and you’re going to heaven. IMAGINE IT.  Of course the chemicals that resulted now to have you think the way you do will force you to think- I can’t kill, that’s not god’s way, that’s not my religion, even if god did say so, that’s not good, that would make me a bad human.

But what if someone didn’t have those chemicals. What if they needed pills or real experience to understand? How would you give someone a real experience?

And that’s just the mental aspect. Homophobia. Racism. Extremism (in any sense). What are we going to do? What can we do?

A Day 10, and Bible class, and poor gorilla (I guess), and ridiculously high standards for life

I don’t really know if I’m tired of something until I have it before me in neat little letters, and I get angry. When I’m bored, I get upset, some deep rage wells up inside me and my mind is pummeled with thoughts like how there are better, newer, more awesome things to do. Or even, there are older, funner, more entertaining things to do, but here I am in this quicksand of a number. Fortunately, reading the Bible isn’t one of the adulting things that I’m more or less forced to do, and so I took (and continue to take) a break, and then I came back to the good book and found myself slowly getting annoyed. (that’s why it’s a continuation) So, let’s get with some interesting things: the new main picture up there.

Whenever I see a class about the Bible I see this :

Especially in the middle of Crapsville Tennessee (aw, that’s not nice, but this is not a place for people who want a fast, constantly changing life- granted, most places aren’t!)

But this little snippet for a Bible class makes the worry fly away  as it makes sure to point out the class would not consider the Bible as some sort of spiritiual guide, but a collection of books. Repetitive books with an interesting way of saying things- that gets old face if nothing is happening and there aren’t any clever wisecracks every so often (like in Shakespeare, you know?).

Another thing to point out is that this class will examine the good book as it has been passed down through the oral tradition and I find to be of grave importance. Many stories written today have been passed down orally, the most famous of them being Grimm’s fairy tales or Greek myths, and the singular case of Beowulf. Countless others that haven’t made it to the mainstream are just as fictional, and just as orally shared as the books of the Bible, and yet the Bible is seen is true. I’m so confused on how this happened really. Egyptian and Greek myths have been phased out so how has the Bible (and others) been able to stay?

Before listening to my reasoning, you might want to research a bit for yourself, but I always think about all the great wars and all the killing of myriads of people and you can see why some religions have stayed longer than others. When you’re about to be killed, that half thought oral tradition may not seem so important. And when you’re doing the killing (and the subsequent convincing) you might let it get to your head that it’s your god speaking, and not just your sword.

I would love to see how the Bible has influenced so much writing. Reading the English Romantic’s poems can be a chore if you’re not familiar with Christian myth, as well as Greek and, rarely, Egyptian. This class is an English major’s opportunity’s for great credit and good learning.

Okay, beautiful gorilla, so sad it died… Well, I’m never really sad when an animal dies, especially an animal I never knew about, unless there was suffering. But I can see how it would upset many people. And I’m just going to bypass Mrs. Gregg’s thanking of God who helped the proper authorities kill the animal (instead of god catching the kid or speaking in his ear not to jump or whatever) and get to the point that is getting me from the reactions of some people.

I’m homeless at the moment and profoundly bored and alone, and while people can get kind of annoying (what is it with people repeating themselves? Over and over and over again? Yes, I got it, you said fuck you to your manager, awesome. Great! You work 12 hours a day and it sucks, gotcha. Yes, I heard you the first three times you said that he wants to marry you- PLEASE ZEUS MAKE IT STOP) kids tend to hold  my attention, because, I suppose, my brain knows they don’t know any better and so their repetition is seen as super cute. And they have small attention spans, so I know the topic will change eventually.

So I go to the free food event and we get to talking about the kid and the gorilla. None of them really care about the gorilla, HOWEVER, they think the family (especially the mom, because apparently it is understood the dad isn’t there? Because the kid is black? Or maybe moms are the only one to be watching the children?) should pay for the damage done (i.e. the cost of a gorilla). First of all, that big guy was about  the worth of a okay-driving car, and you want to put that on top of the heart attack the family involved probably felt after seeing the kid fall, first of all, and then the extreme uncertainty when Boo-boo got a hold of him. Awesome.

But what REALLY upset me was that all the people with kids at the free food event lost track of their kids. Constantly. And all day everyday as I traipse Clarksville, I hear mothers and fathers and guardians calling on their little ones to come back to the three foot radius from the main adult. And anyone who says that the parents should have been looking after the kid, well NO FUCKING SHIT. You think they don’t know that? You think they make it a habit of just forgetting their kids and letting them walk on their own? You don’t think it was just a mistake? It wasn’t until you signed that petition to ruin their lives that they realized, that, oh, Lord! They never watch their kids!

Get the fuck outta here. Yes, a poor animal died, because you don’t want to leave it to chance that the animal would or wouldn’t attack, and the many times a guardian loses track of a kid for two-point-two seconds leads to the kid falling into an enclosure for the animals natural habitat so they can do gorilla things  (I’m hearing that a lot too, should have let the animal do what it does and he prolly wouldn’t do anything? As soon as he bashes a kids brains out, what sort of song would you be singing then?)

Okay, as a homeless person and a person with a disability, and people see me looking generally not as happy as others, the platitudes that seem to rest on everyone’s breasts seem ready to be quickly shared. Because that’s what people do I guess.

One of the platitudes that are driving me fucking bonkers is “Well, at least you have a job”. I put this in le google d’image, and while most of the pictures are saying you should be grateful for the life you have and the job you got, this one was in the top three, and for good reason.

Okay, “at least you have a job”, “at least you’re alive”, “at least you have a place to sleep”. I know many people like to use the useless fact that we take things for granted  against people who are trying to do better for themselves, but I’m not one of those people. Sure, I’m happy I have a job and that I’m alive and I have a place to sleep, but that doesn’t mean I should be happy about not having a place to stay during the day, not enjoying my job even a little bit (especially when I used to, a lot), or that I don’t feel my life is really worth living. I have high standards for life: I want a place to stay during the day. I enjoy cooking some of my own food and not being at the complete mercy of someone else to feed me, especially in the morning, for, at the place I’m staying, you’re not allowed to keep food, and they wonder why people break the rules when come morning there’s Chinese food. HEY, AT LEAST YOU HAVE FOOD TO EAT.

Great, and heartburn. All goddamn day.

I mean, shit, sorry for standards. I mean, damn, you can ask a lot of people who know or have known me personally- I don’t really have high standards. But I know my fucking limits. Working eight hours and my break falls entirely on the fact that my manager remembers I need a break. I can’t leave until someone comes in after me- and they say to me, hey, at least you got some extra hours on my paycheck.

I know my shitty pros and cons, okay? I’m 25 years old. I know I don’t know everything, but I’m the most knowledgeable about myself. And anyone who doesn’t know exactly how I think and feel, or how I’ve thought and felt, don’t get to say how much I can take. I’ve had a lifetime before meeting people, so cool it.

OMG, on Thursday, I told a customer, I’m fine (and I really thought I said it in a cheerful way! I need to hear my voice recorded…) and she was like, ‘Oh, bad day?’ Me: *laughlaughlaugh* More like a bad month *laughlaughlaugh*

Her: Well, it’ll get better, don’t let the little things weigh you down.

Little things like a vandalism charge that really shouldn’t exist, being stuck in the deadest city in Tennessee, and being homeless?

But things would get better. At least by June 27th.

June fucking 27th.

Pledging Virginity To Daddy

As much as this sounds like some very off-kilter smut piece, this could actually be the chapter of some young woman’s teenage life. I put this title on the delightfully- ah, no, I can’t even speak of it in jest. It’s pretty disgusting. Let’s face it, we’re talking about virginity in the spine-chilling traditional sense of whether or not a vagina has been penetrated by a penis and these women are promising that their vaginas aren’t going to be penetrated by penises, and their Dads will help be their beacon or barrier or whatever against penetrating penises.

Ew.

Yea, I’m talking about Purity Balls (and other such celebrations of virginity, really).

Here’s a glimpse at this madness:

And look at the simpering expression. Oh-ha-ha, yes, Puuuuuurity Balls. Let’s not take into account that a woman is only pure as long as her vagina is not penetrated by penises, and that it is important that a woman is not penetrated by penises in the first place. Let’s look at Daddy protecting Daughter in being pure.

I find this comes off as antagonistic and barbaric. Lemme give you some background on what I mean, because this shit didn’t come out of no where.

I work at a certain place as a cashier and sometimes, because of the long lines since customers believe they have absolutely no where else to go, customers can have conversations with each other. There was Younger Couple (with girl child) and Older Couple (who presumably has a girl child as well).

These people seemed absolutely normal, kind of awesome actually. The Older Couple was helping the Younger Couple with the ton of groceries they were buying, and I was scanning on.

The the man of the Younger Couple saw a T-Shirt the man from the Older Couple was buying. And he said, “I like that shirt!” and then he made a joke about keeping men away from his young toddler when she got older. I had been trying to read the shirt in between scanning but I quickly lost interest.

I don’t remember when I started feeling disgusted by the supposed need of fathers to keep young men away from their daughters, but it’s there, and not the topic of this post.

Then the man from the Older Couple had another joke up his sleeve: “Yea, my daughter called me. They had just had one of them sex ed classes and she was like “Daddy, you lied! You said that if I had sex before I was sixteen, the boy would die!”

“Oh, he still will, he still will.”

And they all shared a good laugh at that and I’m like

 

“Yea, why can’t they leave that stuff for marriage?” says the man of the Younger Couple, and here I am thinking, like, isn’t this 2014? Then this man starts talking about how God wanted us to stay pure until marriage and that it’s in the Bible and that our bodies are temples that need to be kept sacred.

And the woman of the Younger Couple starts talking and it gets even more downhill, or maybe we’re underground now, I’m not sure. I do know that it’s pretty dark. Well, wherever we are, the woman of the Younger Couple says, “We’ve already got it all planned out for her.”

ALL PLANNED OUT FOR HER?! CAN’T SHE LEARN TO READ FIRST?

“We’re not going to let her date until her senior year of high school, just in time for prom, where she’s going to be home fifteen minutes after it’s over.” They all laugh, and I’m just like, why, why, whyyyyyy do  you have so many groceries? If this wasn’t the first of the month, you would be gone already!

Then the woman of the Older Couple is there to pipe in and I’m just thinking, oh, this is going to be terrible, because older women are the worse at judging young females because they are often chock full of bad experiences with men and sex and have judgement clouding their every decision.

So she says, “We’re not going to let her date until she’s sixteen and a half, and only for the vow. Our daughter asked one day, “For the vow”, and I’m like, yes, wedding vows. This is not going dress shopping, you’re going to go at it once and stick with it. No sex until the  marriage night, and no divorce.”

Man pipes in, “To a guy of our choosing. If he wants her, he’ll have to go through us first, especially me.” He flexes, they all laugh.

It’s like dating is this Game of Thrones sort of thing, and the daughter is a throne on which to be seated is someone’s junk and that someone has to go through hoops and barrels because being in love with the girl is just not enough.

I’m sure I don’t have to go into detail that the man-to-be has to be Christian and the like.

And the laughing was really killing me people, oh-ha-ha-ha, I love having this much control over our children’s lives, oh-ha-ha-ha, but it’s not really children. Why is only the guy going to be dead if he has sex with the daughter before marriage? Why must the woman remain pure? The lady is just a Barbie pristine and pure and then dirtied with sex that she can’t control with a mutual boyfriend. Utter bollocks.

And let’s go back to purity balls and virginity pledges.  Here’s a quote from the Generations of Light webpage.

“The daughters silently commit to live pure lives before God through the symbol of laying down a white rose at the cross.”

 

“It is impossible to convey what I have seen in their sweet spirits, their delicate, forming souls, as their daddy takes them out for their first big dance. Their whole being absorbs my loving attention, resulting in a radiant sense of self-worth and identity.”

Let me help you out with that impossible to convey feeling that you expressly conveyed. You have a daughter fetish and the thought of controlling her sexual exploits in your hammed fists makes your willy tingle.

This is what religion does to power-hungry people who are nervous about the souls of their kids.

I looked into the eyes of the child who was ready for a nap and feel sorry for the child. Of course, if she wants to be Christian (not like she’ll have a choice in the matter outwardly) but if on the inside she wants to be Christian, technically speaking, she’s going to let Daddy hold her virginity in her heart and let him scare down any boy that comes forward. But she doesn’t need a ring or ball or her father staring down at her looking into her pure, delicate soul to make it a reality. It’ll already be so.

P.S. That daughter of the Older Couple isn’t allowed to have male friends on Facebook. She’s sixteen.

P.P.S. They swapped non-denominational churches after the visit, they clicked so well.

P.P.P.S. The customer after the Older Couple was laughing at me the entire time!

Everyone has autism? Better than Polio.

So, fortunately, according to Huffington Post, Chili’s has canceled it’s fundraiser for an anti-vaccination autism group. As much as I love the idea of raising money for autism, the thought of perpetuating, even a little bit, the idea that people shouldn’t take vaccinations makes the bile rise in my throat.

You can still do another fundraiser for autism!

To be honest, I thought anti-vaccination shiznit was only part of the deepest recesses of the conspiracy gloom, until certain family members have brought to light that it may be bigger than it should be.

The ‘dangers’ of vaccinations (yes, I’m clever) was first brought to light by a certain family member, who I thought was joking at the time. This person sent me to a website called Dherbs, which sells ‘organic’ or ‘natural’ products for problems that are ailing you. Upon reading the page against vaccinations, I (condescendingly, I must admit) told this person it wasn’t true. When I brought up this topic to close relative of the relative who showed me (relative 2 and 1, respectively), relative 2 told me they believed it, too.

We eventually had a longer talk about it, and relative 1 said vaccinations caused them cancer, relative 2 said they might have caused their stroke, they said it causes autism

 

This can’t be happening! I thought feverishly. What stupidity was this?  Sure Dherbs is science-y and has a lot of black people, and they are ‘spiritual’, but I can be right a lot of the time, but then try to swindle you something by telling you some gross terrible dangerous lies; I don’t trust anyone’s science unless they are a scientist, not even if they are black; and, although trying to maintain a fairy-and-crystal image, Dherbs is really all about Christianity (What is with this horoscope and Jesus cohabitation? You can’t accept both! And my opinion is you shouldn’t bother with either)

Recent contact with more of this anti-vaccination nonsense has gotten to me. I don’t have the best immune system and I have a soft spot in my heart for children, so people like me and children (and old people and people who truly aren’t able to get vaccinated) are at the most risk if this idiocy gets any bigger.  I went through a rough fall and winter of getting sick over and over again. I don’t know how big the anti-vax community is here, nor was I thinking of an overall cause. I thought that me being in quick-weather-changes  Tennessee caused me to get sick so often, when I had lived the last four years of fall-winter in more temperate Baltimore. I can only imagine it being worse if many weren’t taking vaccinations (which I did).

You probably already know all the crap against vaccinations, but in case you thought it might be a good idea here’s some science here.

But I want to touch on that last topic:

As much as I don’t want anyone to deal with the debilitating effects of autism, do the rare effects of vaccinations, even the most outrageous (like cancer), do they truly compare to getting polio, measles, and smallpox back on its grand scale?

Would you rather your child live with the effects of polio or the effects of autism? The effects of measles to asthma? Smallpox to mental retardation? These are some of the effects of vaccinations Dherb reports.

I don’t find the idea of living in an age where a third of our children, sickly and elders will be wiped out by preventable diseases, so that someone can avoid the near-zero chance of getting cancer from a vaccination. Since there is no science behind the causal effects, or even enough anecdotal evidence of such things happening, I think people should just get freakin’ vaccinated.

INTENTION! vs. impact… Fucker, do you understand?!

 

Let me start off by saying that I intend to make a big impact however I can as long as I live. I will be posting some things in the next few days that will make some readers uncomfortable, and the best thing you can do in that case is hide away and read something that will stroke your deflated ego. That’s what I’ll surmise in any case.

My sister worked on a farm in June. It was  a very lovey-dovey, sensitive sort of shindig where they sat in a circle and had self-improvement meetings, and some people were fired for saying the word ‘crap’ too much. I worked there a few years ago. Nobody was fired and I don’t remember not being allowed to say crap.

I also  don’t quite remember one particular aspect of the program: Intention versus Impact, though it may have been part of the work and influenced me.

As I’ve come to embrace it, sometimes you intend something and your impact is something different, and, in any case, you should accept your impact and, if it is something you didn’t intend, own up, and try to make it something like how you meant it.

Problem is, some people get defensive when someone takes their intention the wrong way- anyone would. Biggest problem is that they sometimes never own up to it and say: Oh, that’s not what I meant at all! Sorry it sounded that way. For example:

I made a big ol’ bowl of Cream of Wheat some time ago. I always make a big bowl because I don’t eat much. When I do, I try to eat a sizable meal that’ll last me until I remember to eat again, but not that I’ll be super hungry when I do, for I may not be in the position to eat. After it’s all been lifted poured into a bowl, my brother makes the comment: “That’s a big bowl of Cream of Wheat”

Actually, I may have watered down what he said, but I don’t want to misquote him negatively just in case I have him wrong, so the neutral position it is. As you might have guessed, I figured he was making fun of me and I asked him to clarify what he meant.

He said he didn’t mean anything about it.

Now this was after a conversation I had with my dad, and also after one with my older brother, where I’m sure both meant well, but it didn’t feel that way to me. And afterwards I had another conversation with my dad and brother (same one as Cream of Wheat) where I’m sure they thought they meant well, but it definitely wasn’t. Objectively, wasn’t.

With the conversation with Dad and Older Brother (hey, I’ve already a post on both of these conversations, actually!) in the back of my mind, I told my brother about Intention! versus impact… Basically saying that he might say one thing, but it means or sounds like something else.

Little Bro #1 is one of those guys who gets offended but tries to play it off, but is really bad at it. Kind of like when my sister lies. (Which is pretty funny because she’s a terrible, terrible liar but lies all the time). As we went back and forth, I told him: “When you say stuff like that, it sounds… off. Kind of like if I were to say, “Wow, your stomach is so big!”

“But that’s rude. You obviously mean something else.”

“EXACTLY. I’m asking, what do you mean when you say I have too much Cream of Wheat?” (I’m getting a feel for the original quote… But I’ll leave what I had before).

“That doesn’t mean anything though. It’s just a observation!”

Ooooh, okay, yea, sure. And then Dad joined in the conversation and it really went to shit, so I eventually just said, “We’re just going to have to agree to disagree about this” as I thought in my mind that words have meanings and subtleties behind them that not everyone will pick up.

For some reason, Dad got incensed over that, saying somethings before this: “See, that’s what’s wrong with society today”

“OOOOH, okay.” I actually scoffed at him, and a sudden pang went to my heart as I saw little brother’s look of shock and his little backing away. Why should he fear?

“But I’m not going to say nothing about it, because if I do then everyone will-”

I had turned around from washing the pot I had used to cook my food to look at him, lifting an eyebrow at his sudden slide into hypocrisy, as he was wont to do. This time it didn’t happen; he flapped his hands dismissively at me and walked away. Right.

Sure, I may have overreacted (Dad called me over-analytical), but I’m just so surprised at how easily something that can be taken offensively was indeed taken offensively, but they couldn’t understand why I thought something deeper was going on with how big my bowl was. Especially how they kept saying it, in several different ways, and stopping before, indeed, they said what they really meant- at least, that’s how I heard it.

Moving on from there, we’re trying to move. We’ve found this lovely house not far from where my dad works. With how it’s set up, my parents, my sis and my niece, and two others can have their own room. While the last two will bunk up in one. Of course, I want my own room. I do this thing called skipping, I watch porn and other unmentionables, I stay in one room the most out of the family (except maybe Mama) and I stay up later- on the computer or a video game- than everyone else. It just sort of makes sense to get my own room to avoid many conflicts.

So, some days ago, I got into the reasoning with Little Bro#1 (CoW) and he brought up how I should stop skipping. That I should ‘sit down’ and ‘not do it’.

I told him to not act like he cared about my tic because, at that moment, it sounded as if (and I contend it was) he was only pretending to care so he could get his own room. He said he always cared and always was worried about it.

Unfortunately, I’m unable to really see what he said as some well-intention advice.

And he was so upset that I wasn’t convinced he was looking out for my best interests! To be honest, I found it pretty damn amusing that he would think, for a second, that I would believe he was always so worried about my skipping and just happened to try to convince me of it when on the line he could get his own room. Yea, the impact was pretty damn opportunistic.

The Very. Next. Day. Dad went into a lecture about the new house. As usual, when he talks for more than three minutes, the old irritation grew within me and I knew that he would ruin it somehow. He told us older peeps that we’ll need to get jobs and help with the rent (Like we didn’t fucking know that. You didn’t get that expensive-ass house so you could pay for it by yourself. You didn’t tell me how expensive that expensive-ass house was so you could pay for it by yourself. Anyway!) He asked if we understood, and then he explained himself, mostly repeating what he said before.

In my mind, I thought WHY DID YOU ASK IF WE UNDERSTOOD IF YOU WERE GOING TO KEEP TAAAAALKING?! *bangs head against table* This was going to be endless.

Then ol’ Pops got into my skipping- and I thought, yep, here comes the downturn. I could almost hear Lil Bro #1’s eyebrows move.

He told me to skip in the garage, then said that he would rather I not skip, saying he was ‘looking out for me’, that I should ‘find a new hobby’-‘read a book’. “She’s going to be 40 and skipping!” He looks at me and asks, “Is that how it’s gonna be? You’re going to be 40 and skipping back and forth. That’s what you want?”

 

Yea, Dad. THAT’S what I fuckin’ want! To be able to wake up from a deep sleep with an urge to skip, to not be able to sit down to homework, or a WordPress post because, eventually, I’ll want to skip, to not want to hang out with friends or family because I have the urge to skip, to watch a movie or listen to a new song and unable to FUCKING THINK until I skip. Yea, that’s what I want!

Asshole.

Oh, favorite part: We were actually about to go to Walmart and buy stuff for the 4th. I didn’t answer dad his stupid question, and I didn’t go to Walmart and he said: “I just wish I can talk to them without them clamming shut!”  (to my mother, as they walked to the car).

Oh, POOR YOU!

I would say I’m overreacting, but since then I’ve skipped multiple times. Any questions? Nah. Of course not.

Something funny: My youngest brother, who has a few issues that really makes the atmosphere of our home toxic, and some of my other siblings, plus my mom, had a long talk. Turns out, yes, I’m getting my own room (I didn’t really have any doubts), and so is my younger sister, with whom I have written posts and watched a great deal of anime. Therefore, Lil Bro #1 and #2 have to room together.

By the time I woke up joined the conversation, Youngest Bro was in tears that he wasn’t getting his own room. Things got a little heated and Mother gave a lecture, which YB largely ignored, but something caught on from Mama’s words: That we all deserve to be happy (that’s so sweet, cute and true!) and we all deserve our own room.

I refrained from telling her that yes, sure, we all deserve our own room. However, do some people deserve their own room more than others? Of course. That’s why we didn’t draw straws with rooms. What is hilarious to me is that YB for some time thought he deserved his own room more than me! 

 

My Bipolar Disorder, Not YOURS

You’ve probably heard the phrase “You won’t really know what it feels like until you experience it” and, oddly, it usually comes about to a person who obviously hasn’t experienced it and has absolutely no understanding of it.

Like when a person of favorable size says around of person of generally unfavorable size, “Sometimes I feel so big. You shouldn’t worry about what other people say about you. You look great how you are.” As you may be aware, favorably sized person has pretty much used bigness as a benchmark of ‘lowness’ in her life. And even if one doesn’t know it consciously, just like this person doesn’t really know what it feels like to be big, a person of generally unfavorable size (or some other unfavorable attribute) can definitely feel the somewhat insulting feeling towards people of their size.

Or someone with Crohn’s reveals that fact- and some person says, “Oh, one time I had food poisoning- and it was the worst thing ever!” I’ve actually… *ahem* roomed with someone with the disease and three people- no joke, my friends- went on about some stomach bug or another. Sure food poisoning and sickness is horrible, but trying to relate to a person’s lifelong disease by referencing a nigh incomparable illness just shows how ignorant you really are.

Of course, I’m not immune to such antics either, though when I recall such instances I don’t think myself cute at all. I do, however, find it cute when I’m the object of  said antics.

So, I have bipolar disorder. When I first realized it fully, I began to notice that it’s not just me being calm and sweet to being depressed- because I knew for certain what that shit felt like, and was quite aware when I was dragging myself through it. No, it wasn’t normal wavelength to flatlining through sludge.

There’s something else. It’s not  ‘angry mode’. I’ve found the most common dichotomy of bipolarity in popular media (including cartoons, especially anime) is Calm/Happy and Psychotic/Angry.

No, my coin has FUCKING ECSTATIC on one side and DEATHLY DEPRESSION on the other. Often, I’m running along the narrow rim of normality, bumping over annoying people and small disappoints and the like before teetering on one side, losing balance, rolling down the wide diameter of one side then a slight rim job and then to the other side until something makes it all stop- a bottle of pills or a really good book or a long walk at 3AM.

What I’ve come up against the most is “Well, everyone has their off days.”

Now, that’s a completely true statement, but how can anyone tell me that after years of trying to stay on the rim, how can anyone even imply that I don’t know the difference between how I feel when I’m having an ‘off day’ or a ‘good day’ or depression and mania?

What bugs me the frickin’ most is that I begin to second-guess myself. My biggest clue that a majorly devastating depression is about to hit is when I begin to roll around in the euphoria-filled wonderland of mania. Mania now feels as recognizable to me as depression, but if I’ve heard that phrase recently I began to count off the good things that have happened to make me have a ‘happy day’.

And that’s how I felt today. I don’t remember who said something ignorant about bipolar disorder- it might have been someone’s post on Facebook or some shit- but I remembered the baseless sentiment and it stuck to me.

When I’m manic, I get the munchies, no weed needed. I’ve been eating constantly, but telling myself that I’ve just gotten off my period (even though I mostly get cravings before my period, and never after), and that I haven’t been eating as well as I should (which has also been true- but I’ve been eating better overall. Nothing as good as when I was eating nearly vegetarian at school, though),

When I’m manic I can’t concentrate. I’ve been multitasking in my free time for almost five days now, unable to spend good time with my sister (on anime or 642 and various other things) or anyone. Even on my computer, I check this, then this, then this, then this. And I’ve been telling myself that all of it is so very fun and no one would be able to stay on task, right?

When I’m manic, I get aroused easily. Now, I’m usually that way… But now I know it’s different, because I wake from sleep too aroused to lie down. I sit at the computer watching a youtube video or reading a comic, planning on going to bed in about half an hour and then BAM, I know I won’t be able to read or hear another word without relief.

When I’m manic, I go into panics over the stupidest things, and one not so stupid thing: I fully understand I’m manic now, and have been for nearly a week and this depression is going to be killer, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. That’s the not-so-stupid thing. Stupid things? Working at Denny’s yesterday, cutting tomatoes, and the way the tomato slices look- the shapes appear within:

Terrifying- But I realized that if the core is thick in the middle, I don’t panic

They got to be so scary that I stopped slicing tomatoes, diced them, and didn’t look back. The dark is too dark, and I can’t look anyone in the eye, it’s just too much!

I had to stop myself from screaming with delirious joy because we had Taco Bell downstairs, but I couldn’t keep the squeal away when my sister gave me her churro. I laugh out loud because the feeling in my chest is too much to contain, and I bite my arms to stifle the ants beneath my skin. And, hell, I’m too damn sore to do that again, though I can feel my body reeling with that energy.

I just hope I hit bottom within the next three days. I’m off from work. I haven’t been depressed for an extended period since January, and had mild manic attacks since then. But this… This is no ‘happy day’. I’ve been the same thing for fucking months. I’m doubting myself on going to a new school, on ever finding any lovers, of seeing my brother or any type of friend anytime soon, of ever truly liking my sister again or not thinking my dad is not worth talking to- but none of that bothers me at the moment.

But it will when I roll over to the other side, where I go so much more slowly…They won’t be simply ‘bad days’, they will all be the culmination of a goddamned depression  that I simply don’t want to deal with, especially when I’m so alone in it.

I met a human insect.

Something made me pause today… A bedbug (pest that we’ve been fighting for awhile, though t’s pretty good now) was on my hand while I was on the computer. They like my laptop for some reason and come out of the metalwork at specific times. Specifically when it’s a pleasant temperature, not too hot or cold, when I’m still for long periods of time like when I’m reading, and only at night.

But this bedbug was on my hand. It’s hot as hell in my room, I’m checking several things before settling down to read this very good ebook called Evenfall and thus my hand is moving erratically, and it’s in the middle of the hot-ass day.

I’ve been dealing with bed bugs long enough to recognize their different stages- like hungry (instantly painful) infancy to slow but steady (and painful for a longer bit of time) adulthood.

This was a teenager, and it was hungry. It was big enough, but its body was clear and strained, flat.

No, this bedbug wasn’t hungry. It was starving, and it was desperate, and it was willing to risk its life to get some of my blood.

And, for a moment, I thought of letting it do so. But I probably killed two of its relatives last night- two loners, one in the living room and another in my room under the chair, the first an adult that I ignored because I didn’t feel like turning on the light and that which slowly ate at me before I decided to tear it apart in a napkin, the second younger which I could have ignored, but it had bitten me in a sensitive spot and while I was reading Evenfall.

I had told my mom earlier just today that  I was feeling sorry for these things because they were hungry, but at first I despised them with a passion and crushed them and drowned them and melted them with pesticides until I could sleep well.

And then this one, this starving creature crawls on my hand in broad daylight.

I smooshed it into my hand in raging instinct, but it was so thin it could still scuttle away. I grabbed it and tore it, remembering I ate a large bowl of cereal today, and wondering if I would ever be a pest for one meal. Thinking as I checked if it was still moving, that I had probably bothered hundreds with my endeavors over the years, and this guy was dying, dead doing something so incredibly stupid, so incredibly pathetic as disregarding its most helpful of evolutionary traits.

How often had I done the same?

No… I’ve never done the same. I’ve never been at risk (well, some could make the argument that I have, but the guys didn’t kill me, so it’s not a true comparison, I don’t think).

Will I ever do something that went against all I’ve been taught?

Ah, something crawled on me again. But I checked. It was a sugar ant. I wiped it off and wrote this in.

Did I do the right thing? I could swipe an ant because I knew it wouldn’t bother me, wouldn’t bite me and poison me and breed hundreds of others to terrorize me.

Have I done that to all things… All things living and breathing?

What was it thinking.

Is Your Dad an Asshole? Watch Out, Lest You Become One, Too!

Bitching about my dad, film at eleven!

Seriously though, my dad can be such an asshole. I’m not sure why I don’t just cross over like my brother and put him across as “He is an asshole”, probably because he’s done right by me so many times. I’m sure if Dad broke my jaw and still seven years later I have keloids running up and down my jaw, neck, and chin from multiple surgeries, and Dad still hasn’t apologized for it, I would be hard-pressed to bring up ‘all the good times we had’.

Also, I’m extremely open to discussion, any time, all the time. Pretty much why I have a blog and comment on other blogs. I do want to say that anyone who says “You only get one dad, cherish him” or anything along those lines can go fuck themselves, okay? It’s never, ever a good thing to say. This hit home with me when someone who was being terribly abused- like stereotypical, but no less real, abused- by her blood father. She said something along the lines I have said and this: “Even if you have wonderful parents, when they act evil, they have stopped being wonderful. There is no forgiveness for that.”

That’s pretty much my entire view of all the ‘blood is thicker than water’ crap that means nothing if you’re miserable.

So, what happened? First!

You’re such a pussy!

Just to let you know, my biggest problem with my dad was his mental and emotional abuse. The rest of my siblings, except my second younger sister, had more contact with his physical abuse. The worse things? Older brother: broken jaw, as I’ve mentioned repeatedly. First younger sister: kicked to the ground and stomped on in the third grade tied with being locked in a chokehold until almost passing out in the ninth grade. Second younger sister: got a little slap every once in a while. Younger brothers often got punched, especially if my Dad thought they were acting like pussies.

It’s not like Dad didn’t punch me in the stomach when I got car sicknesses and threw up in the car. I remember being in a carseat. Or that he didn’t hit me with the metal side of the belt because I chose my favorite shirt of my Kindergarten year for the second time that week (granted, before this, he thought I was taking too long finding socks). And there are more, but you get the picture.

And he still wonders where my younger sister and youngest brother’s violent tempers come from.

So, my main beef with him now is the non-physical abuse. I remember practicing my expression in the mirror so that when Dad yelled down at me he wouldn’t say, “And now you got that STUPID look on your face!” I’ve perfected my nonplussed look, and it drives him nuts! More than that, though….

He’s also a pretty dumb debater/discussion-ist/whatever. He can’t seem to follow reason (or a mote of tact) when expressing himself or hearing others express themselves. He also always, when expressing himself, follows at least four of these tropes:

• It is your fault
• It is NEVER his fault in any way (I didn’t really realize this until last year. He has this so bad, it’s comical)
• An apology that he obviously doesn’t mean (Oh, I’m so sorry I hurt your feelings). I’ve actually pointed this out to him several times, and my mom has had the gall to say he was sincere most of the time. Oh, mom(s).
• THE GODDAMN PITY-PARTY (Everyone’s against me all the time! Oh, woe is me!)
• Threats of some nature
• Threats of a physical nature
• Bringing up a topic, you follow it, and he points out that it’s unrelated and you shouldn’t be bringing it up
• Insults

This time around, I don’t remember him threatening to do something physical. But he gets 7/8. B+!

Brother to me, anytime we talk about Dad

So I have most of the argument between my brother and I on google chat. I don’t feel like doing the whole copy screen, crop, paste, etc. thing but I’ll post the juicy bits verbatim copy, yea!

Me: “So Daddy told me to contribute more to the household- buying groceries and paying bills and the like”

Bro: no he did NOT

Me: 

“And not just buying fifty dollars worth of pizza that gets eaten in two hours, or giving them 40 dollars worth of gas and whatever money and whatnot. Well, he just said pizza.

In any case, I said yes, sir and all that

But I could tell in his eyes I wasn’t enthusiastic enough about it, and so he decided to give me a lecture about how I should want to contribute to my parents- you know, the spiel”

My brother is flabbergasted because I tell him of times when I contribute very large amounts of money to our parents. Papa’s really good at picking out stuff we are bad at- but we are actually very good at. Like, I would care not if he actually me a bad child- but it would be phenomenal if they were based on truths.

The spiel in question: How we should always want to help out Ma, Pa, and our family. Because Papa always wants to help. Without question. Without complaint. Never.

(…not juicy bits…)

Me: He goes on to say that he could kick me out of the house at any time.

Bro: WOW

Me: (Pa says) “And then where are you going to go? No where. I could just say get out.”

Bro: He’s soooooo manipulative and abusive, [my name]

FUCK

And here I realize in talking with my dad that he’s treating me like my sister, the one who left my niece. The one who has been gone for two days because her ‘friend’s car broke down’ and she can’t find ANY WAY TO COME BACK.

Obviously, I did not like that so I’m a bit angry at Pops at the moment. He does not get any better.

Me: 

I told him that I’m getting in touch with deans to go back to Baltimore. We’ll figure something out

didn’t tell him how I told them what an asshole he is *shrug*

(Pa)”Why do you want to go back to Baltimore?”

“What?” I couldn’t believe it! “I want to go back to school. We’ve had this conversation before. It’s a non-starter. Let’s change the subject.”

“And-” this is still me “-How you going to threaten me about kicking me out the house and then ask me why I want to go back to Baltimore?”

Seriously though. He does not like when we point out when he spouts some contradicting bullshit like my sis dislikes having her lying bullshit put on blast.

So, now he’s angry.

Me: 

Okay, so he says,

“Look. What happens if you get sick again and have to come back here? You’ll be back to square one, just like [THAT SIS], stuck here with no where to go.”

“DO NOT COMPARE ME TO [THAT SIS]“

“DO NOT EVER COMPARE ME TO [THAT SIS] EVER AGAIN”

And he better not. He thinks he hates my simmering fury as I bubble up now and again, he’s going to despise whatever comes if he compares me to [THAT SIS] one more fucking time (something my parents did constantly while sis took her two month break). I’ve worked too hard, too long to be compared to a shiftless, selfish sociopath like my sister, and I’ve done nothing to diminish that progress. Nothing.

Me: 

So, he gets up- all outraged and here I’m thinking when he yells- oh, it’s just my personality. When we yell, BAD CHILDREN

And now he’s towering over me and I’m thinking does it feel good to look down? You touch me, I’ll kick you in your damn stitches.

“I can say you can get out. I can kick you out right now” He points to the door.

Calmly, I answer, “I know you can”

Papa’s Philosophy

Honestly, what was he trying to accomplish by saying this? What could he possibly gain? This intimidation, these threats? This conversation started with him demanding my hard-earned money. How did he think this’ll end if he tells me that he has the oh-so-godly power of kicking me out the house? Oh, what would he tell [AWESOME SIS]? How did he think Mom would react? What about Bro?

Me: 

Well, he doesn’t like me being calm and saying scathing things to his ego, of course

So he goes on: “See, this is why we don’t ever see eye-to-eye.Whenever I try to talk to you, you get all sensitive and you’re just looking for ways to attack everything I say.”

Bro: huh?

Me: 

I roll my eyes at this usual spout of self-pitying, and he just gets angrier and angrier

(to Bro) what?

how he’s talking to a mirror?

Bro: The “this is why we don’t see to eye to eye” right hahaha

Me: 

lolol- I know right! He keeps going! How I don’t ever listen to him and never want to take his advice

“I said yes! I will pay the bills and stuff. What more do you want?”

“Why are you yelling at me about [THAT SIS]?”

“I just really hate when you compare me to her. Really really hate it.”

Still me: “She is not like me. She’s still off doing whatever with Charlie here. I’m here.”

“This isn’t about [THAT SIS]. It’s about you!”

“YOU BROUGHT IN [THAT SIS]!”

“It was just an example!”

“Well, I’m using your example!” Does this man not know how to have a goddamn conversation?!

He can’t be that doggone stupid!

But sometimes he totally, totally is. Or he just can’t see the fallacy of his constant effort to turn things against the other person, to make him always seem like the reasonable one. He can’t take criticism at all. Not a fuckin’ speck.

Me: so, we’s goin’ back and forth and he asks, “So when do you think you’re going back to Baltimore, hm?”

“As soon as possible.”

“When’s that?”

So I do a super roll of my eyes, “As soon as possible.”

“Is that next week, next month?”

Actually, my dean and I specified, hopefully, sometime in the middle of June, but I don’t know, and I didn’t want to give him false words.

“AS SOON AS POSSIBLE IS AS SOON AS POSSIBLE!”

What else could that possibly fucking mean? How else could I put that?

He says, “As soon as possible is like tomorrow or next week”

“Well, tomorrow or next week, if that is as soon as possible.”

“But we know that’s not going to happen!”

I’m ready to fucking kick him.

“Then whenever! As soon as possible! It doesn’t mean immediately- it means as soon as possible. Just like ‘maybe’ means yes or no.”

Here, Bro had to do some stuff, so the rest is mostly memory and may be misremembered, ya’ know.

“I NEED EXACT DATES.”

“You. Do. Not. Need. Exact. Dates.” 

I was being pissy. But Dad was being a total pissant. Why was he acting like he didn’t know what ASAP meant?

“I need to know! We movin’ so I need to know if you’re coming with us! What time are you going to be here-“

“I. Don’t. Know.”

“You should have said that first then!”

“That’s basically what ASAP means in this context!”

So he starts swirling around in anger, trying not to hit something, I guess, and comes back to me.

“Oh, ok, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about bringing this up. I’m sorry we can’t just have a decent conversation because you have to get all mad all the time.”

So, I’ve crossed my arms and leaned back. I now roll my eyes again, cock my head to the side and obviously wait until he’s finally done.

“I can’t say nothing to you, now! You’ll just try to bite everything I say and not listen to me!”

“I don’t do that. And I listen to you. A lot.”

I even gave him a couple of examples- like the beginning of this damn conversation. He could have left it at demanding my money and things would have been so much better for him, but he decided to guilt trip me, and insult me, and it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten mad. I shouldn’t have been so mean. I needed to back down.

Well, the only thing I’ve said to him since then was “Hi, Pops” as he came home from work. He’s a teacher at a university-and now he’s some student expert. Ah, freak-on-a-fucking-leash…

Make no mistake, if your father or mother or bald-headed brother does so many things for you, they can still become hostile and you do not deserve that shit from anyone. And if you have fallen in mode with such antics:

Is this Jealousy…

My sister has come back after nearly two months, having visited perhaps four times. My niece went went to her and hasn’t really been with me since and now she doesn’t want to sleep with me.

There’s weed and alcohol in my sister’s backpack. She’s taken over my other sister’s room and taken the blanket I’ve been using because it’s hers; she wants me to stop wearing her pants that I’ve been wearing to go to work.

No apologies or anything, not a lecture or anything from my parents.

And my niece loves her more than me. It hurts… It hurts so much I can’t stop crying. I can’t, I can’t…

It’s just so painful.