Wednesday, 25 May 2016

Domestic Intimidation: Pick up your phone, or...

Every once in a while there's a family quarrel that throws me back into being fourteen. Today I feel like a ragdoll being laundried with gravel. I also feel proud for how I handled it, but man, nothing makes me a miserable teen like those family things.

My family has that concept that one should be available on the phone 24/7, and moreover, if you didn't pick up (because, let's say, you're taking a shower. Or asleep. Or in the movies, or having sex) you end up being yelled at, starting with "you don't give a fuck about anyone outside your own arse, do you" and ending with "you know what, we're not family anymore". You can see my family isn't very good with proportions, so it's easy to see where I got my own tendencies, but I had tutoring to learn to act constructive, and they didn't.

"But if you don't scream and yell and hurt, what do you do with all that pain-translated-to-anger?" asked the Noog, who, much to my shame, was at the receiving end of one of my worst such explosions. "Well," I replied, "it just doesn't feel as big, you know? The emotional magnitude isn't the same."

I thought I was right there, but I might not have. Today bro yelled so much, and so meanly, and I didn't fall into that pattern. I was constructive, I hid my tears so as not to burden him, I was polite and containing and what have you. Then I called dad and got the really bad blow (see section 'decided I'm not talking to you ever again'), and, well. Was constructive. I didn't yell. I didn't explode. I cried, but only alone.

The urge was to break every glass in the house, or do dramatic self harm with pills, or blades, or alcohol; but I'm a constructive grown up, and none of those really advances anything, so I just... sat there. And wasn't angry, I was just very sad and hurt. And without outlet. And lo and behold, not two hours later Schpritzie goes HELLO and makes fold over in two, then there's throwing up and fever. So you know, Noog, I think an outlet is needed; because if I don't do it externally, it just goes inwards. And I hate throwing up.

And oh, yeah. After over four months of not painting, and living without one, I got a Cintiq today (that was the whole thing; bro came to help me pick it up, and dad bought it for me as a birthday gift). But somehow, that long-dreamt of gift is just standing on my desk right now, and I've zero urge to use it, and even less joy of it.

Birthday is in a week or so. I wonder if dad will be speaking to me by then. Probably not; he'll feel better for justly punishing me (for the terrible sin of not picking up the phone because I was in the shower, mind). Gah. I wish, I wish they too had taken training.

But they didn't, and I've nothing constructive to do with all this. So I can just sit here, and dream of the liberty of being a stupid wrist-slashing teenager, and cry and not know how to make this go away. "Responsible 39 years old" my exponentially growing arse.
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