"Circumlocution, talking around things, verbosity..."
"Yes," admits Tamina. "I want terribly to go away. But where?"
"Some place where things are light as the breeze. Where things have lost their weight. Where there's no remorse."
"Yes," says Tamina dreamily. "Where things weigh nothing at all."
I worry about my mother. She's begun talking again about leaving, but she does not understand that she must act. I've always hated being thrust into the role of marriage counselor, of psychologist and homemaker. It has always hurt, and for a long time I just ran away from it. I cannot stand to put my heart into my house- does that make sense? I don't want to breathe this air into my body, I don't want my heart to touch these walls. I guard myself. Perhaps too closely.
Helen is such a sensitive woman. She used to create beautiful works of art. I think she wallowed too much in her tortured, artist's soul. Why did she choose my father, knowing that he could never supply her with the emotional support she needs? I look at her and I see what should be a beautiful, radiant, quirky woman... shrunken into herself. Terrified and completely helpless. It is hard for me not to be overcome by pity and disgust. She let life make her into a punching bag.
We have similarities that alarm me. I inherited her flightiness. I don't know if that's what this is all about, though.
More, it is my earliest memories: the fighting. Storming out. I was not even four years old when I began to mediate between mum and dad. Even then, I TRIED so HARD to get my mother to have a BACKBONE. She has to take SOME responsibility for The Way Things Are. Until she does, she cannot make a change. You must own your situation.
They can treat both of us like shit, but for me it is not so big a deal. They know that after a point, you just don't mess with me; I'll go off. But when it happens to my mum, she just... She'll go off, too, but it's different with her. They don't take her seriously. She used to walk out, sometimes. I remember two occasions distinctly, and they scared me shitless. But they respond with, "That's your mother." And it is because she does not demand their respect. All she talks about is how unhappy they make her. How they suck the life out of her. How they depress her. "Come on, woman!" I joked. "Stand up for yourself! You should get some of your own friends, become involved in something outside the house." "They won't let me."
It's not that my father and brother are these terrible people. My father's a generous, fun loving man. He's got a huge heart. But he's a complete chauvinist, he's emotionally stunted and he's irresponsible. This leads to inconsideration. And he raised my brother to be the same way. I think of them like huge, clunky aberrations. I'm not into crazy woman's lib stuff and I don't consider myself a feminist- there's just a certain amount of respect with which you treat people, particularly those you love. Love and respect should go hand in hand, no? Gender should not even factor into it.
For me, to be beaten down is one thing. I'll take it as long as I can, and if it gets bad enough I fight back. When that happens, I always win. I hate doing it because the after-effects are terrible. But I can take a certain amount of shit, I'm good at laughing it off. It's something entirely different to watch someone work so HARD, to go through so much grief- her father just died, for crying out loud!- and to be unable to help. I can't make her change her life. And I can't change Jonathan or my father. Every single goddamn day, I see the same shit, over and over. I HATE LIVING HERE! God, my brother is just so MEAN to my mom. How can anyone be so... mean? He watches her crumple up, and somehow he manages to take no responsibility at all for the words and actions that caused it. You DON'T treat your mother that way! Are these ties of love and blood completely meaningless?!
Sometimes it seems I'm burning with all of it, like I have a fever.
Our trespasses. Deus exaudinos.
E di mia vita? Che di quella? ... "Credo di mi hai caminare a mia macchina. Adesso." There were times that sort of thing would make me physically sick for days. Now it's just another instance, colliding lines and a forced ricochet. "Trust me, it's for the best."
"Some place where things are light as the breeze. Where things have lost their weight. Where there's no remorse."
"Yes," says Tamina dreamily. "Where things weigh nothing at all."
I worry about my mother. She's begun talking again about leaving, but she does not understand that she must act. I've always hated being thrust into the role of marriage counselor, of psychologist and homemaker. It has always hurt, and for a long time I just ran away from it. I cannot stand to put my heart into my house- does that make sense? I don't want to breathe this air into my body, I don't want my heart to touch these walls. I guard myself. Perhaps too closely.
Helen is such a sensitive woman. She used to create beautiful works of art. I think she wallowed too much in her tortured, artist's soul. Why did she choose my father, knowing that he could never supply her with the emotional support she needs? I look at her and I see what should be a beautiful, radiant, quirky woman... shrunken into herself. Terrified and completely helpless. It is hard for me not to be overcome by pity and disgust. She let life make her into a punching bag.
We have similarities that alarm me. I inherited her flightiness. I don't know if that's what this is all about, though.
More, it is my earliest memories: the fighting. Storming out. I was not even four years old when I began to mediate between mum and dad. Even then, I TRIED so HARD to get my mother to have a BACKBONE. She has to take SOME responsibility for The Way Things Are. Until she does, she cannot make a change. You must own your situation.
They can treat both of us like shit, but for me it is not so big a deal. They know that after a point, you just don't mess with me; I'll go off. But when it happens to my mum, she just... She'll go off, too, but it's different with her. They don't take her seriously. She used to walk out, sometimes. I remember two occasions distinctly, and they scared me shitless. But they respond with, "That's your mother." And it is because she does not demand their respect. All she talks about is how unhappy they make her. How they suck the life out of her. How they depress her. "Come on, woman!" I joked. "Stand up for yourself! You should get some of your own friends, become involved in something outside the house." "They won't let me."
It's not that my father and brother are these terrible people. My father's a generous, fun loving man. He's got a huge heart. But he's a complete chauvinist, he's emotionally stunted and he's irresponsible. This leads to inconsideration. And he raised my brother to be the same way. I think of them like huge, clunky aberrations. I'm not into crazy woman's lib stuff and I don't consider myself a feminist- there's just a certain amount of respect with which you treat people, particularly those you love. Love and respect should go hand in hand, no? Gender should not even factor into it.
For me, to be beaten down is one thing. I'll take it as long as I can, and if it gets bad enough I fight back. When that happens, I always win. I hate doing it because the after-effects are terrible. But I can take a certain amount of shit, I'm good at laughing it off. It's something entirely different to watch someone work so HARD, to go through so much grief- her father just died, for crying out loud!- and to be unable to help. I can't make her change her life. And I can't change Jonathan or my father. Every single goddamn day, I see the same shit, over and over. I HATE LIVING HERE! God, my brother is just so MEAN to my mom. How can anyone be so... mean? He watches her crumple up, and somehow he manages to take no responsibility at all for the words and actions that caused it. You DON'T treat your mother that way! Are these ties of love and blood completely meaningless?!
Sometimes it seems I'm burning with all of it, like I have a fever.
Our trespasses. Deus exaudinos.
E di mia vita? Che di quella? ... "Credo di mi hai caminare a mia macchina. Adesso." There were times that sort of thing would make me physically sick for days. Now it's just another instance, colliding lines and a forced ricochet. "Trust me, it's for the best."