Christmas...wtf?
I had a very odd Christmas. It wasn't bad, it was strange. Particularly the part at my father's house. I realized where my anxiety comes from this week. My family is always in a constant state of anxiety, either enthusiasm or nervousness. My mother will yell at me for placing trash in the wrong trash can and shriek about making dinner while all she has to say is "can you put that in the other trash can?" instead of the five sentence howling that inevitably makes me scream back at her. My dad didn't stop moving today. He scurried about like a fat elf on crack, handing things out, making food, giving me wine (yes, you read correctly), putting the gift paper in trash bags, taking pictures with two cameras, eating, drinking a beer - never sitting. He was either yelling about cleaning before Georgia arrived (his gf) or cleaning up after 20 people (she has a lot of kids) or he was giddy and laughing about his presents and freakishly excited about the food.
This greatly confuses me. I guess like Ada I learned I lived in a black and white world of caricatures and my father was painted as some black devil with blood dripping from his jaws. "Such a life is satisfying and deeply uncomplicated." I used to hate that I loved him. And then to simplify things I hated him. And now I don't know why. I'm very confused inside.
The truth is, my family likes to be upset, myself included. It's our crutch. Our anger keeps us arrogant and closed off from the other bits of people that might topple our view of the world. So we whittle people down into thin cardboard likenesses, or shadow puppets. Color blind in a way that we are not more tolerant, but more irritable and close minded.
That's kinda painful. I realized this a few days ago somewhere, not consciously like this. Somewhere where I didn't have words and I pushed it down and remained confused as to why...why i was so angry randomly. Why my family was. Why I reacted this way. And then for some reason I admitted it to myself tonight.
I didn't want to. I'm just so...tired. As soon as I have reasons to think of myself in positive ways...I realize something like this. This semester led me to the delusion that I was intelligent in some small way. I actually said I was *good* at things. Like editing...or maybe even writing.
It feels as though no part of my body is large enough to frame this overview of myself. I will have to break a few ribs in order for it to fit and truthfully, I don't think most people would be happy to oblige. This new analysis is not a welcome guest.
"A crooked little person trying to tell the truth." More accurately, I'm more often truthful about the uncomfortable things than the good things. Most people confuse honesty with purity, or tattletales, and both of those are so far from the mark it makes me laugh. For me? Honesty is admitting to yourself and to others what's actually happening. Honesty isn't the life of a saint it's just admitting you are wrong. "We preach best what we need to learn most." I really love honesty and getting down to what's really there but sometimes...there's no one core. There are many bones in just one corpse. Sometimes, I can't be honest with myself. Sometimes when I am honest with others about what really goes in on there...I can see their pupils recoil like frightened children. And as their mind slides to the furthest corner of their skull it is willing to brand my face with the synaptic burn of defense. The scapegoat, the part in themselves shoved under floorboards and bookcases in the mind that attract dust. But here I am walking, talking, breathing and most certainly alive.
Maybe I hate myself so much because I deem myself so hated by others. Maybe I really am.
My thoughts lately have simply run by me. And I don't really care about them. My mind has become a mess of wild connections and stinking concoctions that just don't make sense. Every room is either a hysteria of cobwebs or a throb of moving blurrs that have brilliant color but no lines.
I do love lines. Ever since I started to lose them at age six. I tried to put them down on paper but things would just get blurrier and blurrier every year. I guess that's why I don't like impressionism or modern art because I can feel the painter laughing at my poor eyesight. Four eyes. Even elementary students knew the irony of four eyes and poor sight. I still miss those lines, but at least there's color.
Where did this all start? Oh Christmas. Yes. It was odd, don't you think?
This greatly confuses me. I guess like Ada I learned I lived in a black and white world of caricatures and my father was painted as some black devil with blood dripping from his jaws. "Such a life is satisfying and deeply uncomplicated." I used to hate that I loved him. And then to simplify things I hated him. And now I don't know why. I'm very confused inside.
The truth is, my family likes to be upset, myself included. It's our crutch. Our anger keeps us arrogant and closed off from the other bits of people that might topple our view of the world. So we whittle people down into thin cardboard likenesses, or shadow puppets. Color blind in a way that we are not more tolerant, but more irritable and close minded.
That's kinda painful. I realized this a few days ago somewhere, not consciously like this. Somewhere where I didn't have words and I pushed it down and remained confused as to why...why i was so angry randomly. Why my family was. Why I reacted this way. And then for some reason I admitted it to myself tonight.
I didn't want to. I'm just so...tired. As soon as I have reasons to think of myself in positive ways...I realize something like this. This semester led me to the delusion that I was intelligent in some small way. I actually said I was *good* at things. Like editing...or maybe even writing.
It feels as though no part of my body is large enough to frame this overview of myself. I will have to break a few ribs in order for it to fit and truthfully, I don't think most people would be happy to oblige. This new analysis is not a welcome guest.
"A crooked little person trying to tell the truth." More accurately, I'm more often truthful about the uncomfortable things than the good things. Most people confuse honesty with purity, or tattletales, and both of those are so far from the mark it makes me laugh. For me? Honesty is admitting to yourself and to others what's actually happening. Honesty isn't the life of a saint it's just admitting you are wrong. "We preach best what we need to learn most." I really love honesty and getting down to what's really there but sometimes...there's no one core. There are many bones in just one corpse. Sometimes, I can't be honest with myself. Sometimes when I am honest with others about what really goes in on there...I can see their pupils recoil like frightened children. And as their mind slides to the furthest corner of their skull it is willing to brand my face with the synaptic burn of defense. The scapegoat, the part in themselves shoved under floorboards and bookcases in the mind that attract dust. But here I am walking, talking, breathing and most certainly alive.
Maybe I hate myself so much because I deem myself so hated by others. Maybe I really am.
My thoughts lately have simply run by me. And I don't really care about them. My mind has become a mess of wild connections and stinking concoctions that just don't make sense. Every room is either a hysteria of cobwebs or a throb of moving blurrs that have brilliant color but no lines.
I do love lines. Ever since I started to lose them at age six. I tried to put them down on paper but things would just get blurrier and blurrier every year. I guess that's why I don't like impressionism or modern art because I can feel the painter laughing at my poor eyesight. Four eyes. Even elementary students knew the irony of four eyes and poor sight. I still miss those lines, but at least there's color.
Where did this all start? Oh Christmas. Yes. It was odd, don't you think?