Family rant...Caution.
One of the most irritating weekends I've had in quite some time...Though, I think at least some of it was me because I've not been feeling my very best lately and I'm finding it really hard to deal with things and people. Stuff that usually wouldn't bug me just kind of swirls around and around in my head, getting bigger and more aggravating.
Anyway, my brother and I went to our father's place for the weekend (Friday eve to Sunday arvo) after not having seen everybody since...Uh...I think the first weekend I was house sitting for my brother's dance studio's showcase (mouthful). So that was all cool. Saturday was spent with everyone running around and so no one really got to hang out. Irritating. And Sunday we found out that my dad would be working over Christmas. Now, that's a problem.
OK, so basically since my parents split up back when I was six, we've alternated between houses for Christmas. My dad's family always has a dinner thing on Christmas Eve which we always go to, and if we're at mum's for Christmas Day, then we go home, otherwise we hang out at dad's. Now, this year is Christmas at my dad's. He's aware that Christmas happens every twelve months -- it's no surprise. I don't doubt that he knew it was our year with him...But recently he's taken a job with a coach company that drives people between Sydney and Canberra (possibly the most boring place on earth) and he didn't bother to ask if he'd have to work over the holidays. I know it sounds petty, I'm aware, I'm 23 years old and stuff like this ought not to bother me, but it does. This is the way it's been since I was little -- it's practically tradition -- and I'm not good with change. I think the thing that bugs me most is I'll bet, as usual, that it didn't even enter his mind...It's so like him.
Whatever.
Twice over the weekend (Saturday and Sunday) we went and visited our grandma (my dad's mother) who has developed dementia. Now, I absolutely recognise that he goes over there to help her out and all of that, there's no way I'm shallow enough to bitch about that. My dad works hard to try to be a good son and father (even though he sometimes can't see the forest for the trees) because one of his brothers are in Western Australia and the other, who is supposed to be living with his mother, is a gigantic waste of skin. The guy's an oxygen thief. My grandmother used to be so house proud -- you could eat off the floor -- and she was always cooking or cleaning or gardening or something, but now, because of the dementia, it's just so unsettling. She has a carer who comes in during the day to bathe her and give her meds and to clean up, but it's still so weird. Not that long ago my dad managed to get all the paperwork in for her to obtain a low care place in a nursing home, they're just waiting for a spot to open up. Frankly, I think this should all have happened when she accidentally caused a fire in her kitchen and it had to be rebuilt.
You know she doesn't even recognise me? She does with an introduction, mostly, but never of her own accord. Of course it's the dementia, and my dad tells me that she speaks a lot about the times she'd look after my brother and I when we were little, so clearly she remembers that stuff, but she doesn't know me now. I didn't think that would bother me, foolishly, but I guess it does. The whole thing does. I usually try to avoid or ignore stuff like this so I can pretend that it's not happening or that it doesn't exist, but not today.
OK, so this isn't a rant. It's...I don't know what it is. But it's over now. Time to find some kind of diversion. Reading Stephen King should do it.
Anyway, my brother and I went to our father's place for the weekend (Friday eve to Sunday arvo) after not having seen everybody since...Uh...I think the first weekend I was house sitting for my brother's dance studio's showcase (mouthful). So that was all cool. Saturday was spent with everyone running around and so no one really got to hang out. Irritating. And Sunday we found out that my dad would be working over Christmas. Now, that's a problem.
OK, so basically since my parents split up back when I was six, we've alternated between houses for Christmas. My dad's family always has a dinner thing on Christmas Eve which we always go to, and if we're at mum's for Christmas Day, then we go home, otherwise we hang out at dad's. Now, this year is Christmas at my dad's. He's aware that Christmas happens every twelve months -- it's no surprise. I don't doubt that he knew it was our year with him...But recently he's taken a job with a coach company that drives people between Sydney and Canberra (possibly the most boring place on earth) and he didn't bother to ask if he'd have to work over the holidays. I know it sounds petty, I'm aware, I'm 23 years old and stuff like this ought not to bother me, but it does. This is the way it's been since I was little -- it's practically tradition -- and I'm not good with change. I think the thing that bugs me most is I'll bet, as usual, that it didn't even enter his mind...It's so like him.
Whatever.
Twice over the weekend (Saturday and Sunday) we went and visited our grandma (my dad's mother) who has developed dementia. Now, I absolutely recognise that he goes over there to help her out and all of that, there's no way I'm shallow enough to bitch about that. My dad works hard to try to be a good son and father (even though he sometimes can't see the forest for the trees) because one of his brothers are in Western Australia and the other, who is supposed to be living with his mother, is a gigantic waste of skin. The guy's an oxygen thief. My grandmother used to be so house proud -- you could eat off the floor -- and she was always cooking or cleaning or gardening or something, but now, because of the dementia, it's just so unsettling. She has a carer who comes in during the day to bathe her and give her meds and to clean up, but it's still so weird. Not that long ago my dad managed to get all the paperwork in for her to obtain a low care place in a nursing home, they're just waiting for a spot to open up. Frankly, I think this should all have happened when she accidentally caused a fire in her kitchen and it had to be rebuilt.
You know she doesn't even recognise me? She does with an introduction, mostly, but never of her own accord. Of course it's the dementia, and my dad tells me that she speaks a lot about the times she'd look after my brother and I when we were little, so clearly she remembers that stuff, but she doesn't know me now. I didn't think that would bother me, foolishly, but I guess it does. The whole thing does. I usually try to avoid or ignore stuff like this so I can pretend that it's not happening or that it doesn't exist, but not today.
OK, so this isn't a rant. It's...I don't know what it is. But it's over now. Time to find some kind of diversion. Reading Stephen King should do it.