My mother walks behind me to refill her glass of wine and wetly burps, "Excuse me." Eyes unfocused for days already, mind cloudy, forever fogged. Face pinched, and a cow-like chewing begins as she picks at a plate of cold food. Circular. Never ending. Her bottom jaw continues around...and around...and around...Fox News plays in the background with some other blowhard reminding my white upper-middle-class father of how the poor have wronged him and that Obama is the sum of all his problems. The same scenario, every single night. Monotony and tension, monotony and tension, and I'mma go take another shot and hope they both pass out soon.
I almost want to sleep myself, I'm not right though it's only 10. Too much whiskey too soon, not enough food, too much misery to handle in a day. All I did today was fill out spreadsheets and send them to the appropriate work associates, and read. That's most of my days. It's half-hearted, it's wandering, it's passing time. I want to get back to life, living, feeling, hopefulness. And I have a plan, but I can't implement it yet, and so I sit on my hands and wait for the days to pass. It's miserable. It's unreal - nothing feels real. Nothing looks real. Few things feel real. I've got the idea that one day, a few years from now, I will be a phenomenal therapist helping schizophrenics and borderlines locked up in psych wards. I will help them through reading their art and encouraging them to expunge their feelings. But until then, I'm trapped with the two manifestations of the worst things I could become: outer-seeking and inner-dead. Mother mumbles idly to herself - I watched an entire conversation, all parts played by her slowly disintegrating visage, work itself out while she didn't know I was in the room. Father gulps wine (as I type this, mother hits an air bubble in her glass as she's too drunk-stoned to drink properly, and the gurgle turns my stomach) and smolders silently with untoward hate and malice. Martyrdom. Look at all he's given her. Look at all he's done. Never mind the "useless cunts" and "why don't you just get it over withs." He is never, ever, EVER part of the problem. She is never, ever, EVER in the wrong. She'd just been "bad" that day. "What's she doing?" Dad, I don't know, she's upstairs, or doing laundry, or sleeping, or reading the papers, or smoking weed, and I'm trying to run your business for you, and what are YOU doing? Drinking at noon, doing a bunch of blow, napping in your office, out with a friend. I am not my mother's keeper. I am not my father's keeper. But here, among the boozey vapors, I'm more a reflection of them both. Neither of them have hit 60 yet, and I have a solid 5 months until I hit 26 - so explain the feeling that I'm 50 and caring for senile octogenarians with just a little too much spark in them for their own good.
I almost want to sleep myself, I'm not right though it's only 10. Too much whiskey too soon, not enough food, too much misery to handle in a day. All I did today was fill out spreadsheets and send them to the appropriate work associates, and read. That's most of my days. It's half-hearted, it's wandering, it's passing time. I want to get back to life, living, feeling, hopefulness. And I have a plan, but I can't implement it yet, and so I sit on my hands and wait for the days to pass. It's miserable. It's unreal - nothing feels real. Nothing looks real. Few things feel real. I've got the idea that one day, a few years from now, I will be a phenomenal therapist helping schizophrenics and borderlines locked up in psych wards. I will help them through reading their art and encouraging them to expunge their feelings. But until then, I'm trapped with the two manifestations of the worst things I could become: outer-seeking and inner-dead. Mother mumbles idly to herself - I watched an entire conversation, all parts played by her slowly disintegrating visage, work itself out while she didn't know I was in the room. Father gulps wine (as I type this, mother hits an air bubble in her glass as she's too drunk-stoned to drink properly, and the gurgle turns my stomach) and smolders silently with untoward hate and malice. Martyrdom. Look at all he's given her. Look at all he's done. Never mind the "useless cunts" and "why don't you just get it over withs." He is never, ever, EVER part of the problem. She is never, ever, EVER in the wrong. She'd just been "bad" that day. "What's she doing?" Dad, I don't know, she's upstairs, or doing laundry, or sleeping, or reading the papers, or smoking weed, and I'm trying to run your business for you, and what are YOU doing? Drinking at noon, doing a bunch of blow, napping in your office, out with a friend. I am not my mother's keeper. I am not my father's keeper. But here, among the boozey vapors, I'm more a reflection of them both. Neither of them have hit 60 yet, and I have a solid 5 months until I hit 26 - so explain the feeling that I'm 50 and caring for senile octogenarians with just a little too much spark in them for their own good.
