Ungrateful

June 29, 2009

Well, I just had the “Ungrateful Daughter Talk” again. My mother has no idea…

 

She just thinks that she is faultless. She is completely perfect. She can do no wrong.

 

Well, that’s a bunch of bull. Isn’t a mother supposed to unconditionally love her child? I can’t remember the last time she told me she loved me. Or gave me a kiss goodbye. Or told me I was pretty. Instead, she constantly nags me about my hair, my makeup, my clothes, and my weight. To her, I’m just her fat, ugly daughter. As she went on another rant today about how much weight I’ve put on over the past year–wait, let’s go back a year. Last year, I was in the grips of an eating disorder. I was eating under 500 calories a day to maintain my weight! I would not eat for periods of days. I finally helped myself recover and began eating relatively normally, but with that came weight gain. Twenty pounds in a year. It’s a lot, but it was needed. I now am much healthier, not a skeleton.

 

But my mother preferred the skeleton, I guess. I felt most loved when I was starving. And now, I’m just a disappointment.

 

So now, after I asked my mother to stop commenting on my body, telling her that she was killing my self esteem, she snapped. She went into a whirlwind rant about how I don’t appreciate her, how I don’t thank her, how I don’t do anything for her. “I have feelings, too,” she said, “and you trampled over them.” And don’t you think you trampled mine as well? Every day you remind me of how I’m not good enough, not pretty enough. I see other girls’ moms telling them they look beautiful, even if they have a zit or two or if they weigh 30 pounds more than me. And I can tell that the mothers are not lying; they believe it. I’m jealous of friends who give their parents a kiss as they walk out the door. They can actually do that. I can’t; my mom would pull away.

 

I’ve grown up in an affectionless house. It’s sad, but true.

 

I came across an email from my grandfather to my mother. He told her to be easier on us and on my father; she was driving all of us away with her antics. She needed to be kinder, more loving, less harsh. She didn’t even bother to respond. And she didn’t change. She’s still the same, and it gets worse every day.

 

I remember when I was little. My mom told me that my aunt would take care of me if anything happened to her and Dad. I wished something would, as awful as that sounds. My aunt kissed me and hugged me and told me I was beautiful, no matter how awful I felt. I wondered how two sisters could be so different. I wondered if something traumatic had happened to my mom as a child. Middle child syndrome, I decided.

 

And now, here I sit. I don’t want to leave my room to face Momzilla. I’ll just sit here a while, wishing things were different…

On Committment

June 17, 2009

Well, this is lame.

 

And unoriginal. Sorry.

 

I had a bit of a crisis today; I realized I have committment issues. In nearly every movie I see, it’s the guy that has trouble committing. Well, I do as well…and not just on the relationship side either. It’s everything. It’s not being able to stick to promises I make. It’s not being able to keep my New Year’s resolution. It’s not being able to have one true “best friend.” It’s not wanting to get involved with a guy. It’s not being able to finish anything I’ve started. Hell, it’s not posting to this blog frequently! I’m one big noncommittal mess!

 

Well, I guess it didn’t all start this way. My fear of committment started around age twelve. I found out then that anything you give yourself to utterly, body and soul, a blood oath, handcuffing yourself to something and swallowing the key, jumping off a cliff–okay, maybe not quite that dramatic–will crumble beneath you, leaving you with nothing. Around age twelve, two major things happened: my circle of friends widened and my range of activities widened. Now, you may be thinking to yourself, Now WHY is this a bad thing? Well, here’s how it happened. My circle of friends widened because my best friend decided that it was time to broaden our horizons, to expand our sisterly friendship into a more…social…group. We added a few more giggling 6th graders to the mix. And what did we get? A very irritated and confused me. Sure, I remained as loyal as a puppy to that friend. I never talked behind her back. I was always there for her latest crisis. I cheered her up when she was down. But things weren’t the same. I never had any one-on-one time with her. I didn’t know her anymore. I trailed along behind her, still like that little lost puppy until finally, our bond was broken. She was gone. Not a goodbye, not a warning. Bam. It hit me like a bus. I was traumatized and alone. One day we were best friends, the next we weren’t. I scarcely spoke to her. We weren’t much more than acquaintances. When we were together, conversations were no more than forced pleasantries and small talk. And now I refuse to become committed. Whenever I get too close to one person, I get an itch, an itch right at the back of my brain that tickles and torments until I cut myself away from the person I’ve begun to cling to. And so, I go in cycles, awful, dizzying, noncommital cycles. And I’ve just about had it.

 

The other event that gave me my preteen committment crisis was an early retirement of sorts. I had been a gymnast for 9 years, a significant chunk of my short life. I grew up in the gym. My coach was my father; my teammates were my sisters. And I was as at home on that balance beam as I was on my living room sofa. And then The Incident happened. I whipped my body quickly, confidently around the bar, pointing my toes, tightening every muscle. Perfect, I thought to myself, those judges won’t know what hit them! And then It happened. I whipped my body around the bar especially quickly, especially gracefully, especially confidently, preparing to dismount–then froze. My grips clenched the bar; I had a new sensation in the back of my mind–an itch. What are you DOING? it screamed at me. You IDIOT. You are letting go of this sturdy bar and flinging yourself into the air, flipping upside down, and landing on  that pathetic little mat? It’s practically a CARPET, for crying out loud! Just stay here. It’s safe. And I stayed, whipping around the bar, faster and faster until I couldn’t make out my coach’s panicked face. I broke my swing. I gently dropped myself from the bar, took off my grips, and walked away. After that, the voice was a constant presence. Don’t do your flyaway. Don’t do your flip-flop. Don’t do your standing back tuck. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. And I didn’t.

 

I quit gymnastics the next month, walking out the doors on a constant, 20-hours-a-week committment and into the world of safety, of no-strings-attached. And here I stay.

 

And it slaps me in the face once again. I look at my friend; she’s planning on participating in an event in which she’ll write a 50,000 word novel in one month. A month. That’s writing every day, nearly 2,000 words a day. At the moment, my word count for this post hovers at about 750 words. And I’m getting tired already, ready to close this internet window and just scrap the post I’ve been writing for the last half hour. And she’s committed. And I wish I was, too.

 

And then there’s the biggest part of committment: my love life. Now, I must say that lack of committment makes this rather difficult. Sure, freedom is fun at times, but knowing that I have the ability to commit would be a nice change. One of my guy friends has been hinting that he’d like to be more; and deep down, I think I feel the same way. But I’ll never admit it. I’ll never tell, not because I’m scared or nervous or embarassed, but because I don’t want to commit. Being in a relationship, even just the thought of being in a relationship makes me shiver, makes my skin crawl, gives me that itch at the back of my brain. And the voice says, He’ll hurt you, for sure. But what if something better comes along? Don’t you want to be able to have a bit more freedom, not be tied to one person? And who says that he’ll be committed, even if you are? And I call the whole thing off in my mind. He goes in for the kiss, and I turn my face; he brings up our relationship, and I change the subject. And I’m still not happy. And now I have the butterflies in my stomach whenever I see him, but I also have the unbearable itch at the back of my brain.

 

And I’m scared.

 

Committment is  scary little thing.