That damned rabbit.
I've got a sister. She's in her thirties. She and I share the same dad, but her mom was married to him before mine was. I idolized her when I was young. She was tiny and beautiful and dark. Physical opposite of me. [everyone always said, amazed, eyebrows up 'you're SISTERS?!'] When she was in her early teens, her stepdad went to jail for molesting her and one of her friends. While I don't actively, literally remember any of this, I do know that from about that point in my childhood on, I was terrified of my dad. Didn't want t be in the same room as him. Couldn't talk to him. Wouldn't look at him. I had to go on a trip with him to this shit-town in Ohio for a model airplane convention [a lovely way to bond with your seven-year-old daughter] and I cried and cried the whole time. I remember him calling my mom from the hotel because he didn't know what to do. I sat in the corner and cried and he watched a movie where some girl got killed in an above-ground motel swimming pool.
I'm starting to realize that I have about four real memories of my dad, and two of them involve some shit he was watching on television. Maybe we'll discuss the other two when I know you a little better.
This week: Sick, exhausted, broke. News that one of my best friends is moving away, I'm slipping with school, housework, cooking. I'm so stressed out that even when I close my eyes and breathe deep and sit back on the couch and hold perfectly still, I can still feel the shaking. Somewhere. In my hands. Except I can't see it, which is a little infuriating.
So. What do I do to relax? I read this book. Because I am an idiot. 'Gee' I must've thought to myself, 'I know what will make me feel better. A bio of a woman with 98 personalities resulting from terrible incestuous sexual trauma that started when she was two! Ohyeah. This is going to be awesome.'
Think I'm slipping a little. I spend all day at work imagining the exact words they're going to use to fire me and then getting lost in thought, wondering where the homeless shelters are, whether or not I'm going to wind up with head lice. Last night my fish, Chewy II: The Revenge, died. He was a brains-on-the-outside goldfish. His outside brain fell off. You could see his little fishy skull. He hung on for about an hour and then floated peacefully to the top of the tank. Tony flushed him, and I spent a sleepless night staring at the alarm clock, panicked, trying to decide whether or not it is possible for me to contract a deadly, flesh eating virus from a goldfish. This morning, in the light of day, I still can't force myself to come within five feet of that diseased fishtank.
Maybe shoes will heal my wounds. Or a nap. Or valium. I'm not sure.
I'm starting to realize that I have about four real memories of my dad, and two of them involve some shit he was watching on television. Maybe we'll discuss the other two when I know you a little better.
This week: Sick, exhausted, broke. News that one of my best friends is moving away, I'm slipping with school, housework, cooking. I'm so stressed out that even when I close my eyes and breathe deep and sit back on the couch and hold perfectly still, I can still feel the shaking. Somewhere. In my hands. Except I can't see it, which is a little infuriating.
So. What do I do to relax? I read this book. Because I am an idiot. 'Gee' I must've thought to myself, 'I know what will make me feel better. A bio of a woman with 98 personalities resulting from terrible incestuous sexual trauma that started when she was two! Ohyeah. This is going to be awesome.'
Think I'm slipping a little. I spend all day at work imagining the exact words they're going to use to fire me and then getting lost in thought, wondering where the homeless shelters are, whether or not I'm going to wind up with head lice. Last night my fish, Chewy II: The Revenge, died. He was a brains-on-the-outside goldfish. His outside brain fell off. You could see his little fishy skull. He hung on for about an hour and then floated peacefully to the top of the tank. Tony flushed him, and I spent a sleepless night staring at the alarm clock, panicked, trying to decide whether or not it is possible for me to contract a deadly, flesh eating virus from a goldfish. This morning, in the light of day, I still can't force myself to come within five feet of that diseased fishtank.
Maybe shoes will heal my wounds. Or a nap. Or valium. I'm not sure.
posted by inveil | 9:19 AM
2 Comments:
wot rabbit?
On a... slightly brighter note, my co-worker assures me that, according to feng shui, when your goldfish dies it takes all your bad luck away with it. So. Maybe you are due some good luck. Hope you feel better soon.
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