(no subject)
This is the longest I've been at home in years. It's been over a month now, and while I'm enjoying the calm I'm beginning to feel listless. I need some sort of purpose- making blankets, and reading optional art history texts from last semester is not a purpose. I need more, but I suppose I'll be wishing to be back here when the work starts piling up in the next few weeks. Not really though... being busy and tired makes me happy, or maybe it just doesn't give me time to overanalyze.
Regardless, being home makes me sad sometimes. My mother seems so sad, and I tell her that she doesn't have to stay this way, she doesn't have to stay here - she can leave him, leave this house, go back to school, get a different job. She has options, but she just keeps telling me that all she has to look forward to is death. "It's never getting any better than this." She's given up on anger and reached an even more depressing level of morbid resignation.
It's awful but her words don't seem to affect me anymore. She's said it so many times. so many times. I wish she could see that this doesn't have to be it.
I will never end up like that. I will never end up here - unhappy, without hope, without love, without purpose. This will never be me.
Regardless, being home makes me sad sometimes. My mother seems so sad, and I tell her that she doesn't have to stay this way, she doesn't have to stay here - she can leave him, leave this house, go back to school, get a different job. She has options, but she just keeps telling me that all she has to look forward to is death. "It's never getting any better than this." She's given up on anger and reached an even more depressing level of morbid resignation.
It's awful but her words don't seem to affect me anymore. She's said it so many times. so many times. I wish she could see that this doesn't have to be it.
I will never end up like that. I will never end up here - unhappy, without hope, without love, without purpose. This will never be me.