Writing Marathon - Day 9 - Part 2
*I broke LJ apparently. This entry was too long to post and so had to be broken up*
So I called my parents and told them I'd be coming by for a few things and that while I was there we could talk. This was probably sometime in early December, maybe a bit under 3 months after my 18th birthday and my leaving. Derek provided a car ride and got my stuff in order, but mostly sat and waited while me and my parents had it out downstairs. What followed was the most knock down, drag out fight I've ever had with my parents.
My mother and I began to talk. My mother didn't entirely know what to say, so she asked a few questions and most of it was me talking. By talking, it was probably a laundry list of complaints and grievances. My father sat in his reclining chair watching a football game, never speaking or engaging. After a half hour I decided it was time to be offended by his lack of respect and not being engaged with the conversation and pull him in. The lack of respect part was bait enough to pull him in, my father did not appreciate being called out. And while he defended his right to not talked to me directly, he was angry and already trapped in the conversation. My father tried to dismiss everything I was saying as "venom," implying that my entire purpose was just there to hurt them. We argued for a solid 2 hours, maybe 3. A lot of the conversation is lost to memory and only a few things my parents said standout, most of which I've already cited in other stories without referencing how I knew this is what my parents were thinking or feeling.
In the end, they apologized, though for what exactly I don't remember. I think they knew that if they didn't, I'd've walked away and would never have come back home. And I'm pretty sure that was my parents' entire goal for that conversation, say whatever they need to get me back home. It's debatable how much they meant anything of what they said that day, especially the apology. See, at the time, I'd never argued with both of my parents at the same time. I never felt either me or my sister had won a single battle against even one of them. And yet, here I was taking on both of them and winning. In my mind, I had proven to myself that once i removed their "my house, my rules" argument, I was on equal footing and I could win...that made them mortal, it meant the impossible wasn't anymore. It was incredibly empowering to me. Within a year or two that theory was revised to say it wasn't a level playing field, I had the advantage. The threat of me leaving skewed the board in my favor and that they'd say anything to get me home, even lie. So I won a hollow victory. I didn't realize you can't trust someone who makes an agreement under duress. But that took time to settle in.
At first, things were better then they'd ever been. I began to go home on weekends and just hang out with my family. It had this vibe of family gatherings on holidays when I was a kid. This idea that we'd talk like we had things to talk about, caring about what each other had to say. I had stories to tell about work and all the things I'd done while I was gone. My parents hated hearing my stories from my time at Bev's, it was a painful reminder to them they wanted to lock away. In secret, they also suspected the two of us were having an affair the whole time, found that out from my sister. But then again, my parents were also suspicious of my friendship with Bev from years earlier. They couldn't understand why someone older would want to spend time with someone younger...but that's part of my family's ageism. I'd bring home fancy food from work and we'd have nice sit down dinners like the holidays. We'd play games, which only happened at holidays or having guests over (not even an annual occurence). I got what I wanted. Count the number of times I reference holiday gatherings in this paragraph, it's really the only way I have to explain how different the vibe was and how different my family's behavior was, but also how good it felt.
The lease on the apartment ended in January or February, I forget. My father and uncle helped me moved the carload of stuff I had back home. My sister's appendix burst and she had to go to the hospital that day. It was joked she did it to steal my thunder of moving back home. Things were nice for a little while, but slowly over the next 3 months, things went back to the way they were before I left. That was when I began to doubt the victory I'd had. I tried to nudge my family to keep things going, but they just seemed tired of the effort. Which was an odd thought to me because all those good weekends weren't effort to me, they were fun.
This point probably is when the third step in my interest in cooking came in. I wanted to do something nice for my sister for her birthday. I had my uncle get her her favorite cake from when she was growing up, chocolate babka. And I asked the head chef at work for a simple dish I could cook from scratch, shrimp fra diavolo. In hindisght, not really simple and way more advanced than anything I had ever cooked. But this began a habit of asking him to teach or give me a new recipe to cook at home for a special occasion.
Within 6 months of moving back home, we were firmly back to our old habits. I had gotten full-time at work. And then my parents decided to start asking for rent. Their reasoning was if you're not in school, you pay rent. It's not something my sister ever had to do. And it also just didn't make sense to me why my parents wanted my money, they didn't need it at all. I tried to argue that since I lived in the apartment my uncle rented, it didn't make sense to pay them rent for the same space, but that argument got shot down real fast. Somewhere in this conversation my father worked in the accusation that I was trying to stake him to the ground and he just wouldn't go down. His cry of defiance against my onslaught. I kept a straight face, but I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his accusation. That was the start of me not taking my father seriously anymore, he was too mortal, too flawed. Here he was expending all this efforting fighting an imaginary foe. This also began the saying I used for years, and one I used to admonish Shoshana with constantly, "You can't beat me until you can fight yourself and win." It means you need to be able to stop fighting shadows, your own insecurities. My stern personality tends to really bring out the insecurities in others, because I'm seeing them, they think I'm judging, and it eats at them.
I had just started martial arts at this time and couldn't afford to move out, it tied up too much of my finances. So i told my parents I'd move out in one year when my contract with the martial artsschool was up and I could afford it. My actions made clear they'd lost a son and gained a tenant. I stopped speaking to them, I stopped seeing them, and I lived upstairs as a tenant. I'd sneak downstairs to do my laundry while they were out, or asleep.
Fast forward a year, and 2 weeks before I move out to my new apartment, my father comes upstairs to offer me an olive branch, inviting me down for dinner a few nights later. I agreed, once more making the same mistake that I hadn't figured out yet, my parents would play it cool right down to the wire and then yield. Somewhere in this year I think my sister told me about my parents' plan for the rent was to put it into savings for me, an attempt to teach me a lesson I'd learned years earlier. Remember that shared bank account I mentioned paragraphs back, that was the entire point of having that. And even when i was only getting an allowance as a child, I was setting some aside as savings, which they knew about and sometimes helped with. Those savings were how I bought christmas gifts at the end of the year. The inanity of this still offends me to this day, that they were willing to sacrifice so much for something so obviously pointless.
Over the next 10 months, I still visited 2-3 times a month. Doing laundry gave me an excuse to visit for a weekend. Once more we were back to the family dinners and actual conversations. I began to get the idea that distance was the secret to us having a relationship - limited time together. When the summer came, I stayed over more often because my apartment was old and not set up for an air conditioner. This was near the end of my one-year lease anyway. 2 months after moving out is when I decided I would leave Foodworks and go back to college in the coming fall. I told my parents at Christmas figuring it'd be a happy surprise for them, but I got blank looks instead. Then came the discussions about whether or not I'd move back in and if they'd pay for college, now a cheaper city university. They went back and forth on the topic, never including in their thinking or discussions, they'd just announce to me their decision, then reverse it a few weeks later and then reverse it again. When I complained about their indecision and me not being made aware of or included in these discussions, they asked if I'd prefer they not pay at all - classic power game to dodge the actual complaint.
And that brings this story to an end really. This chapter of my life ends with me moving back home and going to college where things were stable for a few years. Then as I was nearing graduation, things began to fall apart and culminated with me being asked to leave after a petty squabble with my sister. I think this is the longest entry I've written. I've been writing for a little over 4 hours now.
To add one final note, that last move home was the fourth and final step of my interest in cooking. It's when my curiousity meant I went out looking for recipes myself and research and tested them. I should also add that I basically ejected my father from the kitchen for sub-par and repetitive cooking (most notably after his horribly bitter broccoli rabe) and took over responsibility for cooking dinner for the household. I also first began drafting and adding to my recipe file, starting with my favorite recipes from my mother and grandmother's collections. While I botched only one experiment in over 2 years at that point, my family barred me from ever making them something I hadn't tested before. So, I began doing more dinner parties for my friends when my parents went on vacation and a bunch of college kids were perfectly fine being guinea pigs for my cooking. This is also when I branched out into baking.
So I called my parents and told them I'd be coming by for a few things and that while I was there we could talk. This was probably sometime in early December, maybe a bit under 3 months after my 18th birthday and my leaving. Derek provided a car ride and got my stuff in order, but mostly sat and waited while me and my parents had it out downstairs. What followed was the most knock down, drag out fight I've ever had with my parents.
My mother and I began to talk. My mother didn't entirely know what to say, so she asked a few questions and most of it was me talking. By talking, it was probably a laundry list of complaints and grievances. My father sat in his reclining chair watching a football game, never speaking or engaging. After a half hour I decided it was time to be offended by his lack of respect and not being engaged with the conversation and pull him in. The lack of respect part was bait enough to pull him in, my father did not appreciate being called out. And while he defended his right to not talked to me directly, he was angry and already trapped in the conversation. My father tried to dismiss everything I was saying as "venom," implying that my entire purpose was just there to hurt them. We argued for a solid 2 hours, maybe 3. A lot of the conversation is lost to memory and only a few things my parents said standout, most of which I've already cited in other stories without referencing how I knew this is what my parents were thinking or feeling.
In the end, they apologized, though for what exactly I don't remember. I think they knew that if they didn't, I'd've walked away and would never have come back home. And I'm pretty sure that was my parents' entire goal for that conversation, say whatever they need to get me back home. It's debatable how much they meant anything of what they said that day, especially the apology. See, at the time, I'd never argued with both of my parents at the same time. I never felt either me or my sister had won a single battle against even one of them. And yet, here I was taking on both of them and winning. In my mind, I had proven to myself that once i removed their "my house, my rules" argument, I was on equal footing and I could win...that made them mortal, it meant the impossible wasn't anymore. It was incredibly empowering to me. Within a year or two that theory was revised to say it wasn't a level playing field, I had the advantage. The threat of me leaving skewed the board in my favor and that they'd say anything to get me home, even lie. So I won a hollow victory. I didn't realize you can't trust someone who makes an agreement under duress. But that took time to settle in.
At first, things were better then they'd ever been. I began to go home on weekends and just hang out with my family. It had this vibe of family gatherings on holidays when I was a kid. This idea that we'd talk like we had things to talk about, caring about what each other had to say. I had stories to tell about work and all the things I'd done while I was gone. My parents hated hearing my stories from my time at Bev's, it was a painful reminder to them they wanted to lock away. In secret, they also suspected the two of us were having an affair the whole time, found that out from my sister. But then again, my parents were also suspicious of my friendship with Bev from years earlier. They couldn't understand why someone older would want to spend time with someone younger...but that's part of my family's ageism. I'd bring home fancy food from work and we'd have nice sit down dinners like the holidays. We'd play games, which only happened at holidays or having guests over (not even an annual occurence). I got what I wanted. Count the number of times I reference holiday gatherings in this paragraph, it's really the only way I have to explain how different the vibe was and how different my family's behavior was, but also how good it felt.
The lease on the apartment ended in January or February, I forget. My father and uncle helped me moved the carload of stuff I had back home. My sister's appendix burst and she had to go to the hospital that day. It was joked she did it to steal my thunder of moving back home. Things were nice for a little while, but slowly over the next 3 months, things went back to the way they were before I left. That was when I began to doubt the victory I'd had. I tried to nudge my family to keep things going, but they just seemed tired of the effort. Which was an odd thought to me because all those good weekends weren't effort to me, they were fun.
This point probably is when the third step in my interest in cooking came in. I wanted to do something nice for my sister for her birthday. I had my uncle get her her favorite cake from when she was growing up, chocolate babka. And I asked the head chef at work for a simple dish I could cook from scratch, shrimp fra diavolo. In hindisght, not really simple and way more advanced than anything I had ever cooked. But this began a habit of asking him to teach or give me a new recipe to cook at home for a special occasion.
Within 6 months of moving back home, we were firmly back to our old habits. I had gotten full-time at work. And then my parents decided to start asking for rent. Their reasoning was if you're not in school, you pay rent. It's not something my sister ever had to do. And it also just didn't make sense to me why my parents wanted my money, they didn't need it at all. I tried to argue that since I lived in the apartment my uncle rented, it didn't make sense to pay them rent for the same space, but that argument got shot down real fast. Somewhere in this conversation my father worked in the accusation that I was trying to stake him to the ground and he just wouldn't go down. His cry of defiance against my onslaught. I kept a straight face, but I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his accusation. That was the start of me not taking my father seriously anymore, he was too mortal, too flawed. Here he was expending all this efforting fighting an imaginary foe. This also began the saying I used for years, and one I used to admonish Shoshana with constantly, "You can't beat me until you can fight yourself and win." It means you need to be able to stop fighting shadows, your own insecurities. My stern personality tends to really bring out the insecurities in others, because I'm seeing them, they think I'm judging, and it eats at them.
I had just started martial arts at this time and couldn't afford to move out, it tied up too much of my finances. So i told my parents I'd move out in one year when my contract with the martial artsschool was up and I could afford it. My actions made clear they'd lost a son and gained a tenant. I stopped speaking to them, I stopped seeing them, and I lived upstairs as a tenant. I'd sneak downstairs to do my laundry while they were out, or asleep.
Fast forward a year, and 2 weeks before I move out to my new apartment, my father comes upstairs to offer me an olive branch, inviting me down for dinner a few nights later. I agreed, once more making the same mistake that I hadn't figured out yet, my parents would play it cool right down to the wire and then yield. Somewhere in this year I think my sister told me about my parents' plan for the rent was to put it into savings for me, an attempt to teach me a lesson I'd learned years earlier. Remember that shared bank account I mentioned paragraphs back, that was the entire point of having that. And even when i was only getting an allowance as a child, I was setting some aside as savings, which they knew about and sometimes helped with. Those savings were how I bought christmas gifts at the end of the year. The inanity of this still offends me to this day, that they were willing to sacrifice so much for something so obviously pointless.
Over the next 10 months, I still visited 2-3 times a month. Doing laundry gave me an excuse to visit for a weekend. Once more we were back to the family dinners and actual conversations. I began to get the idea that distance was the secret to us having a relationship - limited time together. When the summer came, I stayed over more often because my apartment was old and not set up for an air conditioner. This was near the end of my one-year lease anyway. 2 months after moving out is when I decided I would leave Foodworks and go back to college in the coming fall. I told my parents at Christmas figuring it'd be a happy surprise for them, but I got blank looks instead. Then came the discussions about whether or not I'd move back in and if they'd pay for college, now a cheaper city university. They went back and forth on the topic, never including in their thinking or discussions, they'd just announce to me their decision, then reverse it a few weeks later and then reverse it again. When I complained about their indecision and me not being made aware of or included in these discussions, they asked if I'd prefer they not pay at all - classic power game to dodge the actual complaint.
And that brings this story to an end really. This chapter of my life ends with me moving back home and going to college where things were stable for a few years. Then as I was nearing graduation, things began to fall apart and culminated with me being asked to leave after a petty squabble with my sister. I think this is the longest entry I've written. I've been writing for a little over 4 hours now.
To add one final note, that last move home was the fourth and final step of my interest in cooking. It's when my curiousity meant I went out looking for recipes myself and research and tested them. I should also add that I basically ejected my father from the kitchen for sub-par and repetitive cooking (most notably after his horribly bitter broccoli rabe) and took over responsibility for cooking dinner for the household. I also first began drafting and adding to my recipe file, starting with my favorite recipes from my mother and grandmother's collections. While I botched only one experiment in over 2 years at that point, my family barred me from ever making them something I hadn't tested before. So, I began doing more dinner parties for my friends when my parents went on vacation and a bunch of college kids were perfectly fine being guinea pigs for my cooking. This is also when I branched out into baking.