A smile is the most deceptive weapon a family can have
It’s terrible that my first proper entry is going to be negative, but, here I am.
We recently redecorated my bedroom. It was in serious need of an update since most of the stuff was from when my brother shared the room with me, and that was about ten years ago. So we cleaned the place out and hired a few painters. The next day we went to go pick out a colour. I had a clear idea of what I wanted. A sort of deep purple. As it happened, my brother tagged along with me and my mother, which was where the shit hit the hovercraft.
See, my brother is the dictionary example of obnoxious. The reason why he’s never had a girlfriend is because he stops at nothing to impress people. From making up facts to claiming them, he is an insufferable know-it-all. Despite that he knows nothing.
So back in the paint shop I secured a beautiful looking shade of purple they call “Midnight In Kyoto” (laugh) and showed it to my mum, who approved. Standing only a few feet away, my brother saw the opportunity of sounding ‘smart’ and jumped in, saying, “No no no no no, that colour doesn’t match the floor. It’s gonna make the room look small and therefore feel like a negative space…”
No joke, those were his words. He rambled on about purple being unpractical, hard to clean and an all round nono. And because he’s older than me and according to his birth date an adult, (although there is no other evidence of this) his opinion is somehow more valuable than mine. And of course, my mother suddenly started agreeing with him out of nowhere.
With clenched teeth and curled fists, I was forced to settle for an okay-but-still-not-as-pretty-as-Midnight-In-Kyoto, shade of red.
A few days later the walls were painted and the furniture moved back in and rearranged to my specific liking. Now was the task of hanging some of my new art that we had framed. Six pieces in total. I decided how I would want them arranged, and we started to do just that. Overtly happy with my new and improved room, I went to take Roxy (our five month old Jack Russel/Dachsund doggy) for a walk, humming Playground Love all the way. When I returned I found my father’s car on the drive. He was home. My cheery mood dropped faster than a lead balloon. Fearing the worst, I went inside and darted to my room to find my fear confirmed. My bed, desk, computer shelf, bookcase and even my artworks had been rearranged completely. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, before asking my mum why my room was changed from what I wanted.
“Oh, your father though it would be better that way,” she said plainly. I wanted to scream. I wanted to take a deep breath and scream. It astounds me sometimes how oblivious my mother can be. I often wonder why my opinion amounts to a steaming pile of dog shit to my family.
He changed it to what HE wanted. Not what I wanted. My father. Where to begin. We are nothing alike. We don’t like the same things. We never agree. We don’t even look alike. We don’t talk to each other. Mainly because I avoid him. He’s always in a shitty mood when he comes home from work, and takes it out on us. He and my mum almost always fight. Well, not really. He just talks loudly and she sits there, taking it. I don’t know how she holds out, I honestly don’t. When they aren’t fighting, he fights with me and my brother. We constantly have to defend having a television and computers against him.
I suppose his mood is work stress, and I understand that, I really do. But we shouldn’t have to dread the moment he comes home. I also suspect he’s having a midlife crisis. He’s 49 now, and I don’t think he’ll like turning 50.
I went through a photo album of ours’ a while ago, and I remember seeing one photo in particular. Our vacation in Zanzibar two years ago. The photo is of the four of us standing on a beautiful beach and smiling. My father’s hand was on my shoulder. That was what made me remember that moment so vividly. The second he put his hand on my shoulder, I remember looking at it for a split second before the shot was taken. It was, unbelievably uncomfortable. Mentally. It felt wrong. His hand didn’t belong there. I wanted to shake it off. But instead I forced a sweet smile.
My mum. She’s the one I can relate to the most. I don’t know how she endures my father. But I’m afraid, and I know this sounds horrible and I don’t like writing it, she is a bit spineless. She believes my father’s opinion is most important. And I hate that.
Sometimes I do wish I was more like them, just so that I wouldn’t care about all these things. Sometimes I think I’m the only sane person here. I shouldn’t have to compromise what I want all the time. My opinion shouldn’t be the last common denominator, the after thought. I shouldn’t have to avoid my father, hate my brother or feel sorry for my mother. I should not grow up like this. I should be happy. But right here, right now, I’m not..
We recently redecorated my bedroom. It was in serious need of an update since most of the stuff was from when my brother shared the room with me, and that was about ten years ago. So we cleaned the place out and hired a few painters. The next day we went to go pick out a colour. I had a clear idea of what I wanted. A sort of deep purple. As it happened, my brother tagged along with me and my mother, which was where the shit hit the hovercraft.
See, my brother is the dictionary example of obnoxious. The reason why he’s never had a girlfriend is because he stops at nothing to impress people. From making up facts to claiming them, he is an insufferable know-it-all. Despite that he knows nothing.
So back in the paint shop I secured a beautiful looking shade of purple they call “Midnight In Kyoto” (laugh) and showed it to my mum, who approved. Standing only a few feet away, my brother saw the opportunity of sounding ‘smart’ and jumped in, saying, “No no no no no, that colour doesn’t match the floor. It’s gonna make the room look small and therefore feel like a negative space…”
No joke, those were his words. He rambled on about purple being unpractical, hard to clean and an all round nono. And because he’s older than me and according to his birth date an adult, (although there is no other evidence of this) his opinion is somehow more valuable than mine. And of course, my mother suddenly started agreeing with him out of nowhere.
With clenched teeth and curled fists, I was forced to settle for an okay-but-still-not-as-pretty-as-Midnight-In-Kyoto, shade of red.
A few days later the walls were painted and the furniture moved back in and rearranged to my specific liking. Now was the task of hanging some of my new art that we had framed. Six pieces in total. I decided how I would want them arranged, and we started to do just that. Overtly happy with my new and improved room, I went to take Roxy (our five month old Jack Russel/Dachsund doggy) for a walk, humming Playground Love all the way. When I returned I found my father’s car on the drive. He was home. My cheery mood dropped faster than a lead balloon. Fearing the worst, I went inside and darted to my room to find my fear confirmed. My bed, desk, computer shelf, bookcase and even my artworks had been rearranged completely. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, before asking my mum why my room was changed from what I wanted.
“Oh, your father though it would be better that way,” she said plainly. I wanted to scream. I wanted to take a deep breath and scream. It astounds me sometimes how oblivious my mother can be. I often wonder why my opinion amounts to a steaming pile of dog shit to my family.
He changed it to what HE wanted. Not what I wanted. My father. Where to begin. We are nothing alike. We don’t like the same things. We never agree. We don’t even look alike. We don’t talk to each other. Mainly because I avoid him. He’s always in a shitty mood when he comes home from work, and takes it out on us. He and my mum almost always fight. Well, not really. He just talks loudly and she sits there, taking it. I don’t know how she holds out, I honestly don’t. When they aren’t fighting, he fights with me and my brother. We constantly have to defend having a television and computers against him.
I suppose his mood is work stress, and I understand that, I really do. But we shouldn’t have to dread the moment he comes home. I also suspect he’s having a midlife crisis. He’s 49 now, and I don’t think he’ll like turning 50.
I went through a photo album of ours’ a while ago, and I remember seeing one photo in particular. Our vacation in Zanzibar two years ago. The photo is of the four of us standing on a beautiful beach and smiling. My father’s hand was on my shoulder. That was what made me remember that moment so vividly. The second he put his hand on my shoulder, I remember looking at it for a split second before the shot was taken. It was, unbelievably uncomfortable. Mentally. It felt wrong. His hand didn’t belong there. I wanted to shake it off. But instead I forced a sweet smile.
My mum. She’s the one I can relate to the most. I don’t know how she endures my father. But I’m afraid, and I know this sounds horrible and I don’t like writing it, she is a bit spineless. She believes my father’s opinion is most important. And I hate that.
Sometimes I do wish I was more like them, just so that I wouldn’t care about all these things. Sometimes I think I’m the only sane person here. I shouldn’t have to compromise what I want all the time. My opinion shouldn’t be the last common denominator, the after thought. I shouldn’t have to avoid my father, hate my brother or feel sorry for my mother. I should not grow up like this. I should be happy. But right here, right now, I’m not..